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THE 


WIFE’S SECRET. 


BY 



MRS. AM S. STEPHENS. 

AUTHOR OF “THE REJECTED WIFE,” “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “THE 
OLD HOMESTEAD,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE HEIRESS,” 

‘‘THE GULF BETWEEN THEM,” ETC., ETC. 


If fame is won by woman, she must yield 
The richest glory of her being up. 

Drain her full heart, fling off its golden shield, 
And give he^ holiest love to fill the cup. 
Which, like a brimnyng goblet, rich with wine. 
She ponreth out upon the world’s broad shrine. 
In after years, such thoughts as live and burn, 
Are sacred ashes in her funeral urn. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

T. B. PETEESON & BROTHE’RS, 

30 6 CHKSTNOT STREET. 



£nter«d, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by 
EDWARD STEPHENS, 

In the Clerk’* Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the 
. Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 

This Book has been dramatized by the author, and copyright of the drama 

secured. 



. \ 


DEDICATION 


TO 

JOHN NEAL, OF PORTLAND, MAINE, 

ONE OF THE MOST 

VALUED FRIENDS THAT I EVER HAD, 

OR EXPECT TO HAVE, - 

THIS 

VOLUME IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED. 

ANN S. STEPHENS. 

Washington City, Feb. 29th, 1864. 


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CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


CHAPTER L 

UP THE RIVER 25 

CHAPTER IL 

A COUNTRY RIDE 31 

CHAPTER III. 

AUNT HETTY 38 

CHAPTER lY. 

MIDNIGHT IN THE STONE MANSION 46 

CHAPTER Y. 

GILLIAN AND HER UNCLE 49 

CHAPTER YL 

OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE 55 

CHAPTER YII. 

THE CLOVE ROAD 66 

CHAPTER YIIL 

DOWN THE PRECIPICE 74 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE PACKAGE OF LETTERS 81 


21 


22 


CONTENTS 


, PAGE 

CHAPTER X. 

THE SISTERS AWAY FROM HOME 8t 

CHAPTER XL 

END OP UNCLE DANIEL’S STORY 93 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE NIGHT VISIT OP AUNT HETTY 98 

CHAPTER XIIL 

THE GILDED TEMPTATION 102 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE AUTHORESS AT HOME 110 

CHAPTER XY. 

MRS. ransom’s UNEXPECTED VISITORS 122 

CHAPTER XYI. 

SANCTIMONIOUS. RESPECTABILITY 136 

CHAPTER XVII. 

that strange MAN IN THE STREET 145 

CHAPTER XYIIL 

THE TWO OLD WOMEN 152 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE 163 

CHAPTER XX. 

AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD IN ROCKLAND COUNTY Ill 

CHAPTER XXL 

Dinah’s toilet in the garret 179 


I 


CONTENTS. 23 

*JiQK 

CHAPTER XXIL 

MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK WITH HER MAID DINAH... 18T 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL 199 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

MICHAEL HURST CHANGES HIS LODGINGS 220 

CHAPTER XXV. 

GILLIAN’S CONFESSION 226 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS OP LOVE 239 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE OLD CHEST OF DRAWERS 251 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE 260 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

OPENING OF THE BALL 269 

CHAPTER XXX. 

THE FIRST WALTZ 279 . 

CHAPTER XXXI.- 

THE MASTER OF THE FESTIVAL..* 289 

. CHAPTER XXXII. 

MARTHA hart’s FIRST POLKA 300 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE 317 


24 


CONTENTS 


% PAGB 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS 326 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

AUNT HETTY’S EVIDENCE 335 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

FAMILY CONSULTATIONS 341 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

MRS. ransom’s return 343 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE WESTERN CLEARING 364 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE BODY IN THE woods 383 

if*' 

CHAPTER :XL. . 

THE DESERTED CABIN 40*7 

CHAPTER XLI. 

THE TRIAL AND EXECUTION 421 

CHAPTER XLIL 

THE blacksmith’s SHOP 439 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

AUTHORSHIP 444 

CHAPTER XLIY. . 

THE REUNION 473 


I 


THE WIFE’S SECRET. 


CHAPTER 1. 

UP THE RIVER. 

A STEAMER was making its way very quietly up the 
Hudson. She was a small affair, mostly devoted to freight, 
and ran to one of those river towns whicli are of little 
note in themselves, but form an outlet for the products 
of many a rich hill-side and valley lying back of that 
noble stream. 

It made a pretty object on the river, because the season 
was autumn, when every thing that lives and moves 
through the hazy atmosphere takes some form of beauty. 
It was soon after the first frosts ; the forests were heavy 
with a sumptuous richness of leaves, and their gorgeous 
tints were reflected in the water, till the currents that 
were in shadow seemed running with liquid jewels. 

So the steamer moved on with the breath of that soft 
Indian summer sighing across its deck, so quietly, that 
the shadows through which it passed deepened without 
being broken, and the sunshine laughed around it as it 
does when the water-birds are frolicking, turning the foam 
to pearls and the spray to diamonds. 

* i 


25 


26 


UP THE RIVEE. 


Two persons sat upon the deck — a man of fifty, wrapped 
in a travelling-cloak of foreign make, and a young girl of 
seventeen, also muffled in a cloth mantle lined with fur, in 
which she shivered as you see a poor Italian grayhound 
under all its pretty housings when winter begins to threaten 
us with cold. ^ 

Yet the girl was tall and fair, with that charming type 
of loveliness which makes an American woman a model 
all over the world — so delicate, so bright, and, alas ! so 
evanescent is her beauty. Her air was foreign. The 
wonder with which she gazed abroad upon the hills, 
clothed in their autumnal foliage, bespoke her a stranger 
to the land ; but her gray eyes, the abundance of rich au- 
burn hair that fell in waves from under her hood of blue 
silk, and the energy of mind that spoke in every sweet 
feature was tjjuly American, as the gorgeous foliage upon 
the hill-sides. 

But there she sat upon the deck shivering in her furs, 
though the wind came laden with the breath of dying fern- 
leaves, and to one accustomed to our climate would have 
seemed bplmy and fragrant rather than cold. 

‘ “ Papa, do you hear me 

The gentleman started and looked around with a ner- 
vous sort of terror in his eyes. Her voice had drawn his 
thoughts back from the long-ago with a pang, but he an- 
swered gently and smiling — 

“ Well, Gillian 

The girl had spoken in Italian, and her voice rendered 
even that sweet language more melodious by its rich tones. 
Her father answered in English, and in that tongue she 
spoke the second time — 

Father, why have we come to this country ? Is it to 
live here forever ?” 


UP THE BIVER. 27 

It is your native land, Gillian. Look abroad and tell 
me if Italy is more beautiful 

“ It is strange, gorgeous, oppressively gorgeous, father ; 
but those grand old trees drink up all the warmth. I am 
chilled and lonely here.” 

“ It is my fault, Gillian. A daughter of America should 
not be chilled by a wind like this. I have done wrong to 
keep you away from home till you have forgotten your 
native land.” 

^‘Not quite, papa. I remember it a little: the spot 
which I recollect is not like these hills, but a broken 
country, scattered with hotises, with one at the foot of a 
rugged hill, which seemed to be my home. I only recol- 
lect it at one time, and in one way. The door was open ; 
a glow of sunset fell upon the sill, crossing softly along 
the room in which I sat playing. I remember the very 
dress I wore. It had a pink tint, and was protected by 
a little white apron, rounded at the corners and frilled all 
round ; in that apron I held some flowers, a handful of 
green apples, and a dolPs tea-set, huddled together.” 

The girl paused, smiling: then she suddenly added, 
with a half-forced laugh, for there was something in her 
father’s eyes that made her hesi^te — 

“ These- are trivial things to remember so long, but 
somehow they will always come up, clear as a picture, 
when I think of this land. I could almost promise to rec- 
ognize the very pattern of my dress on the moment, if it 
were before me ; as for the toys, nothing has ever seemed 
BO pretty to me since.” 

“And is this all? Have you no remembrance of 
the house or its inmates ?” asked the father, in a low 
voice. 

“ Of the house ? Oh, yes I it was of stone j rough. 


28 


UP THE RIVER. 


heavy stone, with wings and a porch, over which some 
vine crept, and sent its masses down like a curtain. In 
front was a great tree, maple I should think 

“ No, walnut I” 

“ Oh, wqjnut, was it ? Very well, I know that it 
seemed a tall tree, through which the sunset shimmered 
like gold. Beyond that, on the right, sloping down a hill, 
lay an orchard, from which I had stolen the green apples 
in my apron.” 

“And this is all ?” 

“ How can you think so, father ? Would that make a 
complete picture ? No I no I In the centre of the room 
stood a lady — a tall, beautiful lady — combing her hair I 
think, papa, but am not quite certain, that T had torn away 
her comb while she was striving to take the green apples 
from my apron ; for I have a feeling that she was angry 
with me, and that I had conquered in something. Was I 
a very wilful, naughty child, papa ?” 

“ I am afraid you were not the only wilful one in those 
days, Gillian,” said the father, sadly. “But go on; this 
is a new revelation to me ; why, child, you were but little 
more than two years old then. But the — the lady ?” 

“ She stood before the looking-glass, holding her hair 
up with one hand. It was bright and heavy, ’sweeping 
down over her arm in waves ; the color— ryes I father — ^the 
color was like mine ; and I never thought of it till now. 
But the lady herself was tall and, and — indeed she was so 
like myself, when I dress my hair before the glass, that it 
must have been all a dream. Only, papa, did I ever wear 
a dress like that pink calico, with a white vine running 
over it ? And, if you ever knew such a lady, did she wear 
a dress of very dark crimson, sprinkled with tiny leaves 
of a brighter red ?” ^ 


UP THE RIVER. 29 

“ Yes I Gillian, yes ! She wore a dress like that^an 
India silk, rare in those days.’’ 

“ And the lady herself ? Was she a real, human being ? 
Did I ever know her ? Could this picture be in reality 
my old home ?” 

You will know in a little time, Gillian.” 

“ And the lady — shall I see her ?” 

A cloud came over Mr. Bentley’s face, and he turned 
away without answering. But his daughter was not one 
to be put readily from any purpose. She drew close to 
his side, and resting one hand on his arm, bent lovingly 
toward him. 

“Was this lady my mother?” she said, almost in a 
whisper. 

He answered, in the same low voice, “ Yes I Gillian. 
The lady was your mother.” 

He raised the hand which still lay upon his knee in say- 
ing this, wrung it with a violence she had never witnessed 
before, and, arising suddenly, went down to the little cabin, 
waving her back as she attempted to follow. 

Gillian looked after him, surprised and almost terrified. 
What had she said or done, to arouse so much emotion ? 
Was it wrong for a child to inquire regarding the mother, 
who had died almost before her remembrance ? These 
thoughts disturbed her greatly, and, joined to the loneli- 
ness around, left her sad. 

After a little, Mr. Bentley returned and resumed the 
conversation of his own accord. 

“We are going,” he said, “ to the house which rests so 
marvellously in your memory, Gillian. It is now inhabited 
by your mother’s brother — a plain, simple farmer, who has 
held possession ever since I went abroad.” 

“ My mother’s brother, papa ? Her own brother, and 


30 


UP THE RIVER. 


my uncle ? I never knew before that we had relatives in 
this country. What is he like ? Is he married ? Has he 
any children — daughters ? Indeed I hope so. How 
strange it will seem to have relatives !” 

Mr. Bentley smiled gravely at this ardent outburst, and 
answered her questions one after another. 

“ Your uncle Hart, I have just said, is an honest, hardy, 
frank farmer, who has earned his own bread with toil and 
energy all his life. He has been married, and is a widower, 
with one child, who keeps the house. This is all I can 
tell you before you have an opportunity of judging for 
yourself.’’ 

“ And will that be soon, papa ? I am getting very tired 
of this little craft. It seemed pretty enough at a dis- 
tance, but really it is not particularly comfortable.” 

“Well, have a little patience, and your pilgrimage is 
ended. You see where the hills overtop each other at our 
left. No, not there, but farther up stream. Well, between 
those hills is a valley, through which a road passes into 
the country. There our w-ater-travel ends, and to-night 
we shall sleep in the old homestead. ” 

“ How mournfully you speak, papa ! This visit home 
seems to give you no pleasure ! And yet you were so 
determined on it I” 

“ I am far beyond the age of ardent feelings, Gillian. 
Few things excite me to pleasure, now.” 

“But pain I Oh, papa, if age takes away all capaci- 
ties for pleasure, and leaves the powers of pain untouched, 
I pray God to take me early from the earth,” cried the 
young girl, with tears in her eyes ; and taking her father’s* 
hand, she kissed it tenderly. 

Mr. Bentley drew his hand away, not angrily, but as 
one who shrinks from any unusual display of sentiment. 


A COUNTRY RIDE. 


31 


His action was not that of a cold man, but of one w'ho 
shielded deep feelings from a sudden assault. 

“I did not say this, Gillian. All seasons of life have 
their blessings, if we only learn to use them. But see how 
quietly we are drawing towards the hills. In a little time 
we shall be on shore.” 

Gillian started up and went into the cabin, a little excited 
and eager to leave the vessel. New scenes were before 
her, and at her age novelty had a vivid charm, come in 
what form it might. 

. V 


CHAPTER II. 

A COUNTRY RIDE. 

An hour after Gillian disappeared from the deck, the 
steamer put in to her port, a little cove breaking up be- 
tween the mountains, that had seemed to overtop each 
other at a distance, but which now revealed a narrow 
valley opening back into the country, with the germ of a 
village lying at its mouth and crowding close down to the 
water. 

A wharf, barricaded with piles of split wood ready for 
shipment, received the steamer, which took the inhabitants 
by surprise, and created no little excitement among the 
.wood-cutters, who hung around a grocery-store on the 
wharf. The arrival of a steamer was something, but the 
ftwo persons, who stood upon the deck, were so unlike the 
passengers usually brought to the little harbor, that they 
excited a general and lively curiosity. 

Before Mr. Bentley and his daughter could reach the 


82 


A COUNTEY EIDE. 


wharf, half a dozen men had boarded the steamer, while a 
group of children, who had been shying oyster-shells into 
the river and fishing with pin-hooks from the timbers, 
crowded close, with open mouths and looks of common 
wonder. 

Mr. Bentley inquired of a man, who approached him 
first, if any conveyance could be obtained at the village 
for the interior; but the man, true to his Yankee origin, 
answered by another question : 

“ Was the gentleman straight from New York 

Mr. Bentley smiled ; for the first time he felt completely 
at home. This peculiarity of his countrymen went to his 
heart like a welcome. 

“Yes ! he was directly from New York.” 

“ Come from further along, though, I reckon ?” rejoined 
the countryman. 

“Yes!” 

“ East, mebby ? — this town settled by down-easters.” 

“ No ! from Italy.” 

“ Whar ?” cried the man, in open-mouthed perplexity. 
“ Whar ?” 

“ Beyond seas,” answered Mr. Bentley, with great good 
humor ; for the man’s curiosity awoke a ‘thousand kindly 
feelings. 

“ Beyond seas ? Oh, yes I Travel all the way by land 
or water, if I ain’t too bold ?” 

Gillian’s face sparkled. The conversation delighted her. 

“ By water all the way,” answered Mr. Bentley, re- 
proving her with a glance, and turning to the man again. 

“ Now pray inform me if there is any chance of obtain- 
ing a conveyance, w^hich will take myself and daughter 
some twenty miles into the country ?” 

“ Your daughter, ha ? It kinder struck me that the gal 


A COUNTRY RIDE.- 


33 


I 


must be something to you. Harnsome as a pictur ; ain’t 
she, though 

Gillian laughed outright, and the countryman drowned 
her voice in an answering laugh. 

‘‘ Knew it the minit I sot eyes on you a standing to- 
gether,” he said, addressing her directly. “ ’Spose you 
calculate to ketch a beau in these parts ? Well, there 
ain’t the least ’mite of danger but you’ll do it, right off the 
reel. Now, how old might you be ?” 

Gillian was half frightened out of her tnerriment by his 
ardent curiosity. But she answered that he had not 
yet replied to her father about the “ carriage.” 

“ Carriage ?” answered the man, sinking both hands into 
his pockets and ejaculating his surprise in a broken whistle. 

Why, I reckon the only carriage you’ll be likely to get 
in these parts ’ll be a Pennsylvania wagon, with two 
chairs sot in behind, and a board laid across for the driver : 
that’s the kind of carriages our gals ride in.” 

“ Well, papa, I suppose that will do,” cried Gillian, 
delighted with the idea of a ride in the open air, and still 
more delighted with the promise of this novel conveyance. 

But the countryman was not to be*so easily put off. 

Any more family ?” he inquired, turning to Mr. 
Bentley. 

“ I will tell you that, and give a silver dollar in to the 
bargain, if you bring me a respectable conveyance to the 
wharf, in just twenty minutes,” said Bentley, looking at 
his watch. 

" But how much ’ll you agree to give for the team, with 
a good-looking driver that your gal won’t be ashamed to 
ride behind — throwing in horse-feed and a bite on the 
way ?” 

Mr. Bentley named a sum so liberal that the man 
2 


# 


84 


A COUNTRY RIDE. 


forgot even curiosity in his haste to secure it. In less 
time than that appointed, he came dashing down to the 
wharf in a stout wagon, which contained one comfortable 
seat, and a piece of rough board answering for the driver’s 
accommodation. A pair of beautiful iron-gray horses, 
that might have befitted a queen’s carriage, gave promise 
of a quick if not comfortable journey. 

Into the wagon the luggage which had been brought 
from the steamer was placed, and in a fit of extra politeness 
the countryman threw a buffalo robe over the seat, form- 
ing a rather imposing affair, of which Mr. Bentley and his 
daughter took possession. Then he gave a shout, and 
a young man came forth from a neighboring store, ready 
to act as jehu for his father. 

Away they drove over the hills, and along the beautiful 
lakes, that render the basin of Rockland county scarcely 
less than a wild paradise. Every thing was strange and 
new to Gillian. The forest trees, grouped in masses of 
red, yellow, maroon, green, and brown, all relieving and 
brightening each other ; the broken hollows choked up 
with hemlocks and pines ; the ferns and mosses creeping 
down to the wayside I each sending out some new 
fragrance soothednvhile it invigorated and filled her with 
delight. 

As they approached the western hills that bounded the 
county, Mt. Bentley grew silent and anxious — so silent 
and pale that Gillian ceased to talk, and grew lonely. The^ 
driver, who had amused her with his blunt questions 
and shrewd remarks, now began to be a little curious 
about their destination. Hitherto Mr. Bentley had told 
him what road to take, and where to turn. But now the 
sun was on the verge of the horizon ; the western outline 
was one glow of gold ; and the gorgeous trees swayed to 


A COUNTRY RIDE. 35 

and fro in its light, blending skj and earth together in 
rich harmony. 

“Well, now, I suppose there would be no harm in 
asking where we are driving to inquired the man, 
leaning back, with one hand on his seat, and checking his 
horses with the other. 

Mr. Bentley, whose eyes had been fixed on one point, 
with a strained gaze, directed the man’s attention to a dis- 
tant dwelling, which stood upon the slope of the hills, 
and answered in a husky voice, 

“ To that house.” 

There was something in his voice that impressed the 
man, who merely answered, “ just so,” and prepared to 
drive on. But one of the horses had got a pebble in the 
hollow of his hoof, and he was obliged to dismount from 
his seat and remedy the accident. As he stood in the 
road, with the horse’s foot bent back between his knees, 
striving to beat the pebble out with a stone, a hearty 
voice came out of a side road, and directly a man appeared, 
riding on a heavy farm-horse, and mounted on two 
plethoric flour-bags, which were flung across the saddle. 

“ Hello, there I What’s the difficulty ? Lamed your 
boss or broke a linch-pin ?” 

“ Nothing to speak of,” answered the driver. “One of 
the horses has got a stone in his hoof, and limps a trifle. 
I’m obliged to you all the same.” 

^ The farmer rode up to the wagon, looked down at the 
horse, who held his hoof daintily, with the edge to the 
ground, and then took a friendly survey of the trav- 
ellers. 

“ Strangers, I reckon ?” he muttered. Then turning 
to the driver he commenced an acquaintance in the usual 
way. 


86 


A COUNTRY RIDE. 


“Any news stirrin’ from where you come from, neigh 
bor 

“ Nothing to speak of.” 

“ Just from the river ?” 

“ Started from that point to-day.” 

“ Crops good in that vicinity ?” 

“ From fair to middling.” 

All this time the farmer kept his eyes on Mr. Bentley, 
who fixed uneasy glances on his face while he was speak- 
ing, but turned away, perplexed and uncertain in the end. 

As the driver mounted to his seat again, the farmer 
prepared to ride on, but with evident hesitation, for he 
laid the bridle down on his horse’s neck twice, as if about 
to address the travellers, but took it up again and urged 
his horse into a slow jog. 

Now Mr. Bentley seemed to shake off his uncertainty. 
He bent forward in nervous haste, and bade the driver 
call that man back. The sound of a voice made the 
farmer turn, and he came trotting up to the wagon, 
evidently glad to be recalled. 

“ Tell me,” said Bentley, leaning toward him, “ is your 
name Hart ? And do you live in the stone house on the 
slope of the hill yonder ?” 

“ My name is Hart, sir ; and that stone house is my 
home, till the owner claims it,” answered the farmer, 
promptly. 

“ Daniel,” said Mr. Bentley, reaching forth his hand,^ 
“ have you entirely forgotten me ?” 

The farmer took the slender hand in his hard palm, 
grasped it, and was silent for a moment. But his broad 
features worked, and at last his eyes filled, and, while 
shaking Mr. Bentley’s hand, he turned his head aside, 
ashamed of his weakness. 


A COUNTRY RIDE. 


37 


It is strange how little people have to say, who meet 
for the first time, after years of separation I The first 
words that passed between these two persons, after a 
mutual recognition, were simple enough : 

“ This is my daughter,” said Bentley. 

“ Not now. I’d rather look at her in — in the old house,” 
almost sobbed the farmer, keeping his head turned away. 
“ I’ve got a gal too ; not like what she was ; hut a likely 
critter enough. I’ll ride forard, if you’d just as lief, and 
tell her you’re a-comin’ I” 

With this the farmer beat his heels against the sides of 
his horse, and dashed off, ashamed of the emotion that 
had heaved his broad chest with a tempest of old recollec- 
tions. 

Gillian looked after him, her lips parted and her eyes 
dilating with wonder. To her there was somefhing ludi- 
crous in the heavy trot which kept the farmer in constant 
motion on his meal-bags, and she broke into a laugh when 
the horse dashed into a skeltering gallop, that J;hreatened 
to dislodge the whole load at every awkward leap. Little 
did she know of the genuine feeling which went with that 
jumbling picture. 

Mr. Bentley turned upon her with an angry flash of the 
eyes, and said, sternly, 

“Gillian Bentley, that man is your mother’s only 
brother, her benefactor. Laugh now, if you have the 
^ heart.” 

Gillian’s mirth broke into a sob. Never in her life had 
.she been addressed so harshly before. The surprise took 
away her breath. 

“ Oh, father !” 

“ Her brother, girl. A man whom I hold in reverence 
above all others on the earth.” 


38 


AUNT HETTY. 


“ Father, forgive me !” 

Gillian was trembling from head to foot. She could 
have beaten herself for that wanton laugh. Mr. Bentley 
drew her to his side, and strove to smile upon her. But it 
was not easy, even for this forgiving caress, to reconcile 
the sensitive girl to herself. 

Meantime the driver had started his horses, unconscious 
of the little domestic drama going on behind his back ; 
and every moment drew the travellers nearer home. 


CHAPTER ITT. 

AUNT HETTY. 

• When Daniel Hart rode up in front of his house, Mar- 
tha stood in the door, waiting his approach with some im- 
patience. It was baking-day, her flour had given out, the 
great oven in the back kitchen had burned down, and was 
getting cold ; in short the family baking for that whole week 
was in danger for want of a measure of flour to mould the 
bread with, and that lay in the bags swung across her 
father’s saddle. So out she ran at once, with her sleeves 
tucked up, her plump, white arms ready for instant work, 
and a tin basin in her hand. 

“ Come, father, jump down and untie the bags ; I am in 
a desperate hurry. Another ten minutes and we should 
have had to heat over again. I’ve got the most splendid 
pan of beans, all ready for baking, with such a lump of 
pork on the top, all cut in checkers, and dropping open 
like a rose. Come, hurry up, do !” 


AUNT H ETTY. 


39 


Daniel Hart got down from his horse, and swung one 
of the bags over his shoulder, and marched into the porch. 
Somehow he did not feel able to speak on commonplace 
things, but untied the bag in silence, watching Martha as 
she took out the flour in handfuls and filled her basin. 

“Martha,” he said, at last, “is Aunt Hetty in the 
kitchen ?” • 

The girl lifted her rosy face, with a look of surprise. 
There was something unusual in the father’s voice. 

“Aunt Hetty ? Yes, father. Where else should she 
be ? I left her raking up the coals with a long shovel.” 

“ Martha, wait a moment. There’ll be company here in 
a little while. I met your uncle, Joseph Bentley, and 
his darter on the cross-roads ; and they’ll be here in a few 
minutes, without fail.” 

“ Uncle Joseph Bentley and his daughter from foreign 
parts !” cried Martha, all in a flutter of excitement. 
“ Goodness me, what shall we get for supper ? The baking 
won’t be out of the oven this two hours. Oh, fathef, do go 
kill a chicken, and I’ll put down a short-cake — that, with 
preserves and honey, will have to answer.” 

Away Martha ran, bearing the flour between her plump 
little hands, while her apron streamed behind her, and the 
bright curls danced and twinkled around her face. 

“Aunt Hetty I I say. Aunt Hetty, what do you think ? 
Uncle Joseph Bentley and Cousin Gillian — what a name — 
are coming here to-day. You can hear the wagon tugging 
up the hill. Hetty I Hetty ! where have you hid ? Aunt 
Hetty I” 

“ I am here,” answered a faint, struggling voice, from 
the back porch ; and Mehitable Hart came in, white and 
still as usual. But a less excited person would have 
remarked that her face, always colorless, was now almost 


40 


AUNT HETTY. 


ghostly, and that her small hands shook like leaves when 
she attempted to take the basin from her niece. 

“ Don’t take it all. Leave me enough for a short-cake. 
No 1 that’s not it. Leave enough out for that, and I’ll 
mould the bread. You look tired out. Here’s the butter, 
and there lies the rolling-pin. Goodness gracious ! how 
fast they come I You can fairly hear the wheels clatter. 
But there’s a good deal of work in ten minutes : so now 
for it !” 

Suiting the action to the words, Martha dusted the table 
with flour, plunged her arms into the kneading-tray, cut 
off a mass of dough, and went to work with wonderful 
vigor, rolling, pinching, and smoothing the shapeless sub- 
stance into as dainty a loaf as ever dexterous hands 
moulded. 

“ There I” she exclaimed, smiling, as she laid the first 
white globe in its pan, “ if they want a handsomer loaf 
than that, let them knead it, I say. Dear me. Aunt Hetty, 
how your hands shake I Do call old Dinah to roll out 
the cake, and go fix up a little. Put on a black silk apron 
and a nice cap : that’ll make a lady of you in no time 1” 

“ Yes I” answered Aunt Hetty, in a low, hoar>se voice, 
wringing her hands together with passionate violence, 
rather than from an effort to divest themselves of the 
clinging flour, “ yes 1 niece, I am almost tired out;” and 
with these words trembling on her lips, the little woman 
opened a door and glided up a flight of back stairs to her 
own room. 

When once there, she flung up the sash, looked wildly 
down the road ; then creeping back to a far comer of the 
room, sat down, moaning softly, like a wounded kid. 

At each new rattle of the wheels, she gave a start, and 
looked piteously around, as if seeking some covert ; and 


AUNT HETTY 


41 


when Martha came in, dusting her hands, all rosy and 
smiling with excitement, the little woman darted to her 
bureau, and began a vague search after something, while 
a timid apology for not being ready trembled unuttered on 
her white lips. 

“ Here, aunt I what on earth possesses you ? That’s my 
bureau, and here’s your cap. Let me put it on for you. 
Why, how you shiver, and this poor little face is as white 
as curd. Wait a minute : this’ll never do. Let me hunt 
up the pink bows, and pin them on : with all this white 
you look like a ghost I” 

Aunt Hetty sat down, both hands dropping helplessly 
to her lap, while she resigned herself to the busy fingers of 
her niece, with a frightened look, growing paler and paler, 
spite of the pink ribbons, as the wagon drew near the 
house. 

“ Here,” said Martha, taking the old lady’s face between 
her hands, and kissing her cold lips, “ you are neat as a 
new pin : only do cheer up a little ! What always fright- 
ens you so when company comes ? Now I’ll fix up a 
trifle myself, and go down. Where on earth is my brown 
dress ? Dear me, this hook never will fasten !” 

Uttering these broken ejaculations, Martha Hart ar- 
rayed her pretty figure in a dress of dark merino, put on 
a neat muslin collar with cuffs to match, and hurried down 
to receive the coming guests. She had so long been the 
leading spirit of the household, that it seemed the most 
natural thing in the world for her to go out on the front 
porch, where the flour bags still lay in a heap, and wait 
for the visitors to descend from their homely conveyance ; 
for, though a mere girl, in all essentials she was far more 
mistress of the house than Aunt Hetty, its nominal head. 

Still, with all her brightness and sweet ways, as her 


42 


AUNT HETTY. 


father called them, Martha was a little shy, and really 
modest. The presence of strangers made her cheeks glow 
like a peach, while her large, brown eyes cast timid glances 
from under the long fringes that would have provoked 
admiration from an artist, and which sent John Downs’s 
heart into his mouth the moment he sat his eyes on her. 

Daniel Hart went out to the wagon as it drew up, and, 
before Mr. Bentley could dismount, took Gillian in his 
arms, holding her close to his bosom, while he looked in 
her face. 

Gillian was surprised to feel his great heart swell against 
her side, and to see his massive features quivering like 
those of an infant. When he set her upon the ground his 
eyes were full of tears — so full that he could not see his 
daughter through the mist. She drew close to her father, 
whispering softly, 

“ Did he love my mother very much, papa 

But Mr. Bentley did not answer. His feelings were 
not so warmly impulsive as those he witnessed : contact 
with society had driven them deeper into his nature. While 
the farmer’s heart heaved, his only stood still. 

“ And this,” he said, approaching Martha, “ is my niece, 
no doubt. Gillian, she should be about your own age.” 

The two girls looked at each other shyly at first, but 
after a rnoment Gillian ran up the steps with a bright 
smile on her face, and one hand extended, for>6he saw, by 
the blushes that came and "went on Mama’s face, a thou- 
sand unspoken welcomes that went to Iror heart at once. 

“ So you are my cousin ; I am very glad !” she ex- 
claimed. “ Why, it seems like home already !” 

“ This is your home,” said Daniel Hart, coming up the 
steps, with a spirit of self-abnegation breaking from every 
feature. “ The house, the land, from the hill top to the 


AUNT HETTY. 43 

turnpike, is all your father’s : as for us, we do not own a 
foot.” 

Indeed ! well, that’s of no sort of consequence, I 
fancy I” cried Gillian, looking around : “ oh I there is the 
orchard, and here is the great walnut. I remember it all 
— all but the — the ” 

Gillian broke off suddenly, shocked by her own thought- 
lessness. She saw at once that it was the memory of her 
mother which had made her father so pale, and filled that 
strong man’s eyes with tears. 

“ It is a beautiful view,” she added, softly ; some 
day, my cousin, we will go all over it. Dear me I who is 
that ?” 

The two girls had walked into the hall as Gillian was 
speaking, and stood in the door of the family sitting-room. 
Opposite them was a long, old-fashioned mantle-glass, and 
in it Gillian saw the figure of a little woman shrinking 
away behind the window drapery, so pale and terrified 
that it made her start and open her eyes with wonder. 

“ Oh ! it is only Aunt Hetty ; you are sure to like Aunt 
Hetty ; come in and speak to her I” cried Martha, cheer- 
fully ; “ she’s a little backward with company, but the 
dearest, nicest — oh ! indeed ” 

Martha broke off with a little start, for that instant Aunt 
Hetty came forward, with a swift, noiseless movement, 
and stood close to Gillian, gazing in her face, with a scared, 
earnest look. 

Sister I oh, sister !” 

The words dropped rapidly from her lips, and she caught 
hold of Gillian’s dress, with a tender, pleading motion that 
perplexed the young girl exceedingly. 

“Why, aunt, what is the matter? You haven’t got a 
sister in the wide world that I know of. This is our lady 


44 


AUNT HETTY. 


coifsin from foreign parts. I told you all about it up- 
stairs,” said Martha. 

“I know — I know!” said Aunt Hetty, lifting one little 
hand to her forehead. “ It is Sarah’s child, not — not her- 
self. I know that, but cannot realize it. Let me look at 
myself. ” 

She went up to the mantle-glass, and peered at the 
pale face that met her for more than a minute. When 
she turned away, the most wan smile that Gillian ever 
saw gleamed on her lips. 

‘‘ Can you believe it ?” she said, mournfully, pointing to 
Martha. “ I was like her then I” 

“Why, aunt, how strangely you talk !” said Martha, be- 
wildered by this singular address. 

“ Do I ?” murmured the old lady. “Do I ? What was 
it all about ?” She seemed tempted to address Gillian 
again, in the same vague way, but with one of her warm- 
hearted impulses the young girl threw her arma around 
the little woman and kissed her two or three times. “ So 
you were my mother’s sister. I understand it now — and 
I look so much like her ; of course that must be it. No 
wonder it disturbs you, aunt. Dear ! how strange it 
seems to call any one aunt. Won’t you kiss me, dear 
lady ?” 

The old lady began to tremble under the caresses which 
the bright girl lavished on her, and Gillian remembered, 
after, that she did not return her kiss, but rather struggled 
in her embrace than responded to it. 

“ Oh, that’s right,” the farmer called out, entering the 
hall. “ That’s right, Mehitable : welcome the gal with a 
whole heart ; she must not feel strange among us.” 

“ I could not feel strange here. Uncle Daniel,” cried 
Gillian, smiling brightly while the tears leaped to her eyes. 


AUNT HETTY 


45 


“ See how I have got all the names 1 I, who never had 
a relative before. Uncle, aunt, cousin I Isn’t it delight- 
ful ?” 

“ That’s kind and hearty,” replied the farmer. “Take 
our cousin up-stairs, Martha, while this young chap and 
I bring in the trunks. Aunt Hetty will see about supper 
while you get acquainted.” 

The two girls went up-stairs, but directly Martha came 
down again to hurry the trunks. John Downs had one 
on his shoulder, mounting the stairs. Martha stepped 
aside to let him pass, and then she observed, with a blush, 
what remarkably fine eyes the young fellow had. Amid 
all her excitement this thought would come back to her 
mind all the evening ; for, according to the custom of those 
times, the driver sat down at the same table with his pas- 
sengers, and Martha was placed directly opposite him 
during supper. 

I don’t pretend to know how it happened, but when 
Martha Hart went to bed that night she had learned that 
John Downs owned two-thirds of a sloop on the river, be- 
side the iron-gray horses, the Pennsylvania wagon, and 
some bank-stock in New York — that his father had been 
one of the first settlers in the river town where he made 
his home ; and altogether she gathered a very satisfactory 
account of his antecedents, though she certainly had no 
sort of business with the information ; but then Martha 
came naturally to her curiosity, for all that part of the 
country had been settled from New England. 


CHAPTER lY. 


MIDNIGHT IN THE STONE MANSION. 

That night, when all the family were in bed and the 
hush of repose lay on every thing, Mr. Bentley and Daniel 
Hart sat together over the brands of a hickory-wood fire 
that had burned low on the sitting-room hearth. 

There was a strong contrast between the two men, bdth 
in character and in person — not the contrast of good and 
evjl qualities, but of intellectual organization. One was 
delicate, sensitive, and reflective by nature ; all these 
qualities had been sharpened and refined by an education 
which few Americans could boast. The other was grand 
in his honesty, brave as a lion in every sense of the word, 
large-hearted and of vigorous mind, well informed, and 
yet almost entirely without absolute education. He was 
progressive in thought, but pronounced his words exactly 
as his father had done before him ; but his opinion had 
power in the neighborhood, even among educated men ; 
and he was one of those persons of whom it is said, “ He 
is a whole-souled man, whose word is as good as his bond.’^ 

Such men may become what the world call “well olf,’^ 
but they seldom get rich — seldom care for more than an 
easy competency, which they enjoy with zest, because 
earned by labor. 

Such was Daniel Hart, as he sat in his oaken easy-chair 
by the fire-side that night. His stout form filled it com- 
fortably without crowding, and his great, hard hand rested 


MIDNIGHT IN THE MANSION. 47 

on the arm as he leaned towards his brother-in-law. His 
air was earnest, and something of curiosity was expressed 
in his features, but they were frank and open as the day. 
You knew at a glance that whatever he felt would be 
spoken out honestly. 

On the other hand, Mr. Bentley sat in his chair, tall, 
well-proportioned, without leaning to excess in any way ; 
quiet and watchful. High-toned refinement, an excess of 
cultivation, and those resources that spring from it, were 
written in his features. He did not seem less truthful 
than the farmer : what you saw was sincere and honorable ; 
but there existed depths of feeling and hidden thoughts in 
that man’s nature, impenetrable to his best friend. His 
soul was like the waters of Niagara, just below the Falls — 
deep and turbulent underneath, but tranquil on the surface. 
You knew that storms were in those depths, but could 
neither see nor hear them. 

But the farmer’s nature was like the waters of Lake 
Superior, clear and transparent. There was not a thought 
of his being that did not shine through like the pebbles 
and sand of that pure lake. 

“ Tell me,” said the strong man, with a quiver of the 
voice, while he looked upon the waning fire as through a 
mist, the tears lay so close to his eyes ; “ tell me, brother- 
in-law, how it was that my sister died in those foreign 
parts. We never had the particulars ; only read in the 
papers that she was gone. You wrote to us, I don’t 
doubt, but the letter never came, and to this day Hetty 
and I are uncertain how it all happened.” 

“And you have never heard ?” said the other, in a low 
voice, leaning back in his chair, and shrouding' his eyes 
with one hand. 

“Not a word since you left here, nearly fifteen vears 


48 MIDNIGHT IN THE MANSION. 


ago, except what reached us from a New York paper. 
There we found that poor Sarah had died, and that was 
all.” 

“And you made no further inquiries ?” 

“ How could I ? Who was there for us to ask about 
her? I went down to New York to inquire, for Hetty 
was almost distracted for a good while, and I was afraid 
she would pine herself to death ; but there was no one to 
tell me any thing. It seemed as if Sarah and her child 
had drifted from our home and been lost in the fog — she 
went so far out of our reach before she died.” 

“ And you grieved over her loss ?” 

“ Grieved over her loss I Who could help it ? Wasn’t 
she the salt of the earth, our Sarah ? Wasn’t she like an 
angel of light on her father’s hearth, before you took her 
away ?” 

Mr. Bentley pressed his hand close to his eyes and 
groaned within himself. 

“ I don’t think much of good looks, and I ain’t sure that 
Sarah was what folks call a beautiful woman ; but I tell 
you, sir, there was something about her face when she 
talked, and in her eyes when she smiled, that no woman’s 
face ever had for me before or since. That look would 
bring me to her feet like a dog, no matter how much I was 
sot again what she wanted.” The stout man paused in 
his speech and swept one hand across his face. Then he 
spoke again with more calmness : 

“ Mr. Bentley, when you took that gal from under my 
father’s roof, the light seemed to go out of the old house 
with her, and it never came back again. Hetty, you 
know, was always nervous and afraid of her own shadow, 
still she kept up wonderfully while Sarah was with her ; 
but when she went away, the poor little thing wilted right 


GILLIAN AND HER UNCLE. 49 


down, and she never has seemed to cheer up since. You 
wouldn’t a known our Hetty, I dare say ; she’s sort of 
withered into nothing since that news came. If young 
Mike Hurst did not come to see her now and then, she 
wouldn’t know there was a world outside of the house. 
She’s dreadful melancholy ; the only time I ever heard 
her talk up pert was when he was here last summer’s a 
year. ” 

“And who is Mike Hurst ?” inquired Bentley, dropping 
his hand, while a gloom came to his eyes. 

“ Well, I don’t rightly know, myself, but I believe he’s 
an orphan boy that our gals picked up in New York afore 
Sarah was married. I don’t right like the fellow, but 
Hetty won’t hear a word agin him from anybody. You 
can’t wake her up on any thing but that. But this isn’t 
what I sot up to talk about. Tell me while we’re alone, 
how my sister died.” 

“ I cannot tell you. I cannot talk of her. It wrings my 
heart too bitterly,” answered Bentley, and without another 
word he left the room. 


CHAPTER V. 

GILLIAN AND HER UNCLE. 

When Daniel Hart was left alone, he sat for a moment 
troubled by the outburst of passionate feeling with which 
Bentley had left the room. 

Daniel Hart thought over the old times till the great, 
brave heart in his bosom swelled heavily, and he arose from 
3 


60 GILLIAN AND HER UNCLE. 


his chair, pacing up and down the room with his hands locked 
behind him, and the balls of his two thumbs pressed 
against each other, as was his habit when drawn into- deep 
or disagreeable reflection. He was not aware that the 
tramp of his heavy shoes resounded through the house, 
but kept on step, step, step, like a sentinel on duty, till at 
last the door opened, and the bright face of Gillian Bent- 
ley looked in. 

“Ah, it is you. Uncle Daniel, and all alone,” she said, 
closing the door after her. “ I’m so glad. Every thing 
seems strange and still here. I cannot sleep, try ever so 
much. Don’t look at me so. Indeed I tried, but the moon 
came blinking in through the hickory branches, and up I 
sprang, put on my dressing-gown, huddled myself into a 
shawl, and sat down by the open window till I am quite 
chilled through.” 

“ It was dangerous business,” said Hart, with a quiver 
in his voice. “ Like your mother, too — very like your 
mother, gal.” 

“Ah, I was thinking of her, my poor mother, when the . 
moonlight came in : it seems as if she must be somewhere 
in this old house waiting for me. Uncle Hart. You’re not i 
sleepy, I am sure, by the way you walk. Sit here in this ' 
great chair, and let me snuggle down on the footstool by ( 


your knee, while you tell me about my mother — my splen- 
did, beautiful mother — for I have her features here, deep, 
deep in my heart. It was the first memory of my life 
buried there. Uncle Daniel.” 

Gillian threw one arm over the farmer’s shoulder, and 
with a little gentle force led him back to the oak chair, 
while she sunk down to the stool at his feet with the grace 
and sweep of a bird of paradise when it settles to rest. 

“ There now. Uncle Daniel, just imagine me your daugh- 




GILLIAN AND HER UNCLE. 61 

ter tea years old, determined to be naughty and to keep 
you up half the night, while I try to believe that you have 
given me one good scolding, and made up as a dutiful 
papa is bound to do.” 

“Wall,” said Uncle Daniel, and a broad smile swept 
over his face, spite of the trouble that spoke in his voice, 
“ Wall, now, what shall we talk about ? What can an old 
chap like me have to say to a fine lady that comes down 
at midnight in her silks and satins like a queen, and wants 
to make believe sociable ? It’s like a game-cock coming in 
among a lot of guinea hens and turkey gobblers : they 
have nothing to do but to give up the yard and huddle 
under some old cart out of the way.” 

“Am I so very unlike everybody here, then ?” said Gil- 
lian, in a tone of childish mortification. “ What is it— my 
poor old dressing-gown and this shawl ? Indeed I’d noth- 
ing else. Somebody packed them on the very top of the 
trunk.” 

With a pretty flush on her face, and a degree of eager 
haste, which proved her quite earnest in her shame, she 
wrapped the blue silk dressing-gown, with its soft facing 
of swan’s-down, close about her, and strove to cover it 
under the rich folds of a camel’s-hair shawl, with a delicate 
azure ground, and overrun with great palm leaves, in 
which a thousand gorgeous tints struggled into contrast, 
or slept in harmony. 

“ There now, dear uncle, that I am getting respectable, 
please tell me if I look the least bit like my poor 
mamma?” 

The old man gazed down on that bright face till his 
eyes filled with tears. He did not speak, but lifted his hand 
and laid it on her head. 

“ A little,” said Gillian, smiling through the mist that 


62 GILLIAN AND HER UNCLE. 


shone in her eyes. “Just the least little bit, please : say 
that much.” 

“ Yes, gal, you’re like our Sarah— just as a wild rose 
from the swamp puts you in mind of a damask rose in a 
garden. I should a known you was her darter if I’d met 
you in Kamtschatka. She hadn’t your fine feathers, but no 
one could mistake about your being birds of the old 
nest.” 

“ Yes, that’s it,” cried Gillian. “ That’s the way I feel 
here — like a poor little bird that’s been flying and flying 
among the myrtles without settling anywhere ; but 
once under the old hickory tree, that is rattling its nuts 
down to the frosty grass this minute, the tired birdie 
longs to folds its wings and feel at home. It’s like living 
a dream over again to find myself here.” 

“And this is the way she used to talk,” said Hart, 
gazing with looks of wistful fondness into the beautiful 
face uplifted to his. 

“ Who ? my mother ? Did she feel like a bird glad to 
rest ?” 

“No, like a bird forever wanting to try the wing. 
From the time she was ten years old she was always 
talking of the foreign parts she intended to visit; the 
people she meant to know ; and the things she meant to 
do.” 

“ Why, Uncle Daniel, did my mother have such ideas ?” 

“Yes, yes, she did strange things in her fancy, just as 
.she travelled over strange countries.” 

“But she was very young — not much over my age 
when she died.” 

“ When she died ?” 

“ Yes, when she died. Two or three years older, per- 
haps, but not more than that.” 


GILLIAN AND HEE UNCLE. 53 

Then you remember the time 

“Yes, but not the circumstance. We were in Naples. 
I remember their coming to the convent where I had been 
left for some reason, and telling me I no longer had a 
mother — that she was gone.” 

“And this was all ?” 

“ No. One day when I asked for the place where my 
mother was laid, the old nurse took me up to a beautiful 
spot back of Naples, where you could hardly see the 
graves for the roses that blossomed over them — not for a 
week or a month, but all the year around — and told me 
that was the place where I must seek for her.” 

“And did you find the spot ?” 

“ I don’t know. Neither the nurse nor I could read. We 
could only guess where she lay by the brightness of the 
roses ; but we found a little hollow on the hill-side, com- 
pletely choked up with blossoms. The loveliest spot 
you ever set eyes on, so shaded that the softest moss 
crept over the little marble slabs all around, except one, 
and that was pure and white as snow. We picked that 
out for the one and came away.” 

“And this is all yoii know of your mother ?” 

“What more should I know, poor, little child that I 
was ? Papa never speaks of her ; no other human being 
that I ever saw knew any thing about her : that was why 
there was no sleep for me to-night, till I had come down 
and had a talk with you. ” 

“It was the way she used to come when anything 
troubled her,” said Hart, looking thoughtfully into the 
fire. 

“And that proves how much we are alike. I wasn’t so 
certain about the nice old lady, or even Cousin Hannah j 


54 GILLIAN AND HER UNCLE. 

but the moment I felt your hand on my head I was sure 
of you.’^ 

The old farmer shook in his chair; he was almost 
crying. 

“ That’s right, gal — that’s right. It’s the way Sarah 
Hart’s darter should feel on coming home. It’s the way 
she would have felt herself if she — but what has become 
of her ? God help us all — when did she die — where did 
she die ?” 

Gillian turned suddenly pale. Her eyes grew wild 
and large. 

“ Oh, uncle, what a strange question !” 

“Every thing about her is strange,” muttered Hart, 
shaking his head doubtfully. “ I don’t know how to talk 
or what to say ; secrets always trouble me, especially 
when I don’t understand them. In all these years never 
to have heard a word : and now to be, as it ‘was, knocked 
down with a single word, and left to brood over it. 
Young lady, what kind of a man is your father ?” 

“ My father — my father I Why, Uncle Hart, who ever 
thought of asking that question before ? What child ever 
did ask it ? Why he is a grand, true man, gentle as an 
angel, and proud as — as an emperor. With wise men he 
is always the wisest ; with good'men he seems best of all. 
I never saw a human being that dared to take a liberty 
with papa, and yet he is mild and kind as a little child.” 

“But you haven’t dared to ask him right straightfor- 
ward about your own mother and her folks.” 

“ That’s true, and yet I could not tell the reason to 
save my life.” 

“It’s because there’s something kept back.” 

“No, I hope not — I hope not,” murmured Gillian, 
thoughtfully. 


OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE. 55 

"You wasn’t afraid to ask me about her ?” 

" Not in the least. I only hesitated a little about the 
time of night, that is all.” 

" Now tell me what you want to know.” 

" Every thing.” 

"Yery well: why not? There ain’t nothing to tell 
that a body need be ashamed on ; and you’ll never see 
the day, gal, bright and peart as you be, that Sarah Hart 
mightn’t have gone ahead of her own child.” 

"I’m sure of that. It’s just what I was hoping to 
hear. It’s so pleasant to look up to one’s own parents. 
Well 

Gillian folded both her white hands over the farmer’s 
knee, and looked up to him with her eyes brimfull of ten- 
der expectation. 

" Well !” 


CHAPTER YI. 

OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE. 

" How much you are like her, child I” said Hart, stoop- 
ing over Gillian. " Wall, I feel like talking about her to- 
night. 

" Sarah was a good deal younger than I or than her 
sister Hetty ; but neither on us could hold a candle to her. 
When she sot her mind on a thing, she would have her 
own way, and always got it in the 6nd. There was only 
three of us, and Sarah, being the youngest, was the pet 
of the whole family, till, like pets in general, she took the 
lead.” 


66 OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE. 

“ Of course,” said Gillian, laughing softlj. “ Why not ? 
I dare say she was just the sort of person to lead off with 
a grace. Well, you spoiled her among you, and of course 
she paid you for it : nothing can be more natural.” 

“ I dare say, gal — I dare say it all came in the natural 
course of things ; but she was a downright good-natured 
creature after all, and loved us, I’m sure of that.” 

“ Of course she did : who could help it ? Why, Uncle 
Daniel, it isn’t ten hours since I saw you on that great, 
fat, roly poly old horse, and I love you dearly already ; cer- 
tainly she loved you.” 

“Yes, yes, I don’t doubt it; though, to own the truth, 
I never could quite understand our Sarah. She was like 
an April day ; you couldn’t tell whether it would be storm, 
or sunshine, or a dull, heavy rain, twenty-four hours to- 
gether I She was a great reader, and took up painting 
flowers and all sorts of fol-de-rol accomplishments, natu- 
rally as a bird takes to fruit. I declare it almost took my 
breath sometimes to find out all she knew. Your Aunt 
Hetty was considered a girl of pretty good laming, but 
she had to study hard for her knowledge ; while Sarah 
seemed to pick up her lessons, on the wing : but the two 
gals loved each other dearly. 

“ I raly believe Hetty would have died for her sister any 
day ; but as for Sarah, she was capable of something more 
than that : she used to pet and protect Hetty in any little 
difficulty, as if she had been the oldest. She had to do this a 
good deal, one time or another, for your grandfather was 
a stern old man, and kept a tight rein on his family, espe- 
cially the gals. 

“ We lived on the old place here, and might have got 
along in the world, but the old man indorsed for one of 
his neighbors, and when called on to pay up, he was 


OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE. 


obliged to mortgage the homestead, and that gave us all 
the first hard push down-hill. 

“ Father was a proud man, and looked upon debt as a 
disgrace. After this trouble came on, he was more severe 
and rigid in all his notions than ever. This made every 
thing gloomy and uncomfortable for the gals, ahd even 
Sarah began to feel down-hearted at times. 

“ The old man used to say it wasn’t so much the money 
that troubled him as the feeling that his fellow-men was 
ready to take advantage at every step on the highway of 
life. His confidence in mankind was shook, and that is a 
terrible misfortune with a man like your grandsire, I can 
tell you. Your grandfather raised the money on his place 
down in York, from a young fellow that had more than he 
knew what to do with. That led to the rich man’s coming 
up into these parts to look at the property. His name was 
Bentley.” 

“ What ? my father ?” cried Gillian, deeply interested. 

“No, but your father’s cousin — a handsome, genteel 
young feller as you ever sot eyes on. He’d just come of 
age, and felt his oats, I can tell you. Of course your grand- 
father invited the young chap to put up at tfie homestead, 
that was now a’most as good as his own property. It was 
wintertime when he came up, and such sleighing : you don’t 
find any thing like it now-a-days — snow three feet deep on 
the turnpike, and trod down as hard as a miser’s feelings. 

“We had two spans of horses in the barn that would 
match any thing this side of the river ; and a great double- 
seated sleigh, not to mention a pony and a cutter that 
skimmed the snow like a bird flying. Besides all this, it 
was mighty comfortable in-doors. Grandma was great on 
buckwheat-cakes, and we had lots of maple molasses ; and 
as for her mince-pies, they beat every thing. 


58 


OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE. 


“ With all this the homestead -wasn’t a disagreeable 
place to stay in. The gals did their part, too, and kept a 
bright hickory fire in the out-room there in the wing, which 
was enough of itself to light up the red and green stripes 
of the home-made carpet, and made the tall, brass and^ 
irons glitter like gold on the hearth. 

“ It raly was a purty sight in the evening, when the 
gals came down-stairs sleeked up like a couple of new 
pins : Hetty, with her brown hair twisted up behind, and 
shining like velvet; and Sarah, with her hair in soft, thick 
curls, that seemed to catch the firelight the minute she 
came in. Oh, she was a bright, happy cretur — was sister 
Sarah in those days ; springy as a willow branch, and 
rosy as an apple tree in bloom. 

“ I remember that winter she wore a blue merino dress 
that fitted close up to her neck, with sleeves tight to her 
arms, which sloped down beautifully to her wrists. Little 
ruffles — I’ve seen her crimp ’em a hundred times with my 
penknife, — fell over her hands, and stood up like a pretty 
border of snow around her neck. I tell you she looked like 
a princess by the side of little Hetty, with her shy, brown 
eyes, and h^ dark dress, and her half frightened W'ay. 

“ I didn’t go a g^reat deal into the out-room while young 
Bentley was there. What with feeding cattle, getting out 
fence-rails, and doing up the chores, I got purty well tired 
out afore night, and so sot down in the kitchen with the 
old folks ; besides I had a little business of my own to at- 
tend to across the hill, that took up my Sunday nights ; 
and maybe an evening or so^in the week time. 

“ Martha’s mother lived over in that direction ; and, 
when the gals were in the out-room with young Bentley, 
I naturally enjoyed myself best tother side of the hill. I 
don’t pretend to compare the gal that I married in the 


OLD TIMES AND THEIE ROMANCE. 59 

end, to our Sarah — that wasn’t to 136 thought of; but she 
had a way about her like my oldest sister, and in all the 
neighborhood there wasn’t a better housekeeper, or a kinder 
wife, than she made me up to the time of her death.” 

Efere Uncle Daniel drew one hand across his eyes, and 
paused a moment to get his voice. Gillian took the other 
hand in hers, and laid her cheek against it in a sweet, 
caressing way, that made the old man sob out, 

“ Oh, don’t, don’t, it goes too straight home 1” 

Then Gillian dropped his hand quite reverently, and 
bent her eyes on the fire, afraid of disturbing him again. 

“ When a young fellow is in love, it’s like a dream, you 
know, and almost anything may happen around him with- 
out being noticed. I was too much taken up with my 
own feelings for any very distinct idea of what was going 
on at home. It sometimes did strike me that Mr. Bentley 
stayed a good while at the homestead, and that Sarah 
seemed to enjoy his society very much, but it gave me 
no sort of uneasiness ; for, though the young fellow was a 
splendid-looking critter, and rich enough to buy out half 
of Rockland county, our Sarah was a matcj^ for him, or 
any other man that ever wore shoe-leather. 

“ As for Hetty, dear, quiet Hetty, 1 4 ever thought about 
her at all ; she wasn’t the sort of gal; you know, to take 
much , to the young fellows. She was so hard to get 
acquainted with, always keeping, as it were, behind her 
harnsome sister. 

“ Sometimes I would just go into the out-room in the 
edge of evening, not to appe^ unsociable, and every thing 
seemed comfortable enough. Sometimes the girls had 
their knitting work out, while Bentley read to them ; 
sometimes I found him holding the skein of yarn on his 
two hands, while Sarah stood before him winding it off. 


60 ' OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE. 

She had a dexterous way of twirling the ball round in the 
fingers of her left hand, that made it come out sloped like 
a lemon with a hole in the centre. Your grandma taught 
her the trick, and young Bentley used to torment her to 
show him the way it was done ; but he was sure to spoil 
the shape of her ball, when she was ready to box his ears, 
and never let him off till he unwound it again. 

One evening, I remember going in after he had tangled 
up her yarn so that it was impossible to unravel it. She 
was on her knees before the hearth, blushing and laugh- 
ing, as she tried to make the thread run evenly from a 
heap of yarn he had left on the floor ; the flrelight struck 
through her curls till they shone like floss gold, and she 
now and then lifted her eyes to his in a way that brought 
my heart into my mouth. It was frank and open like a 
child’s; but ho- was looking down upon her, and I didn’t 
like the way her eyes fell, or to see her neck and face 
turn scarlet when she saw Hetty and I looking so steadily 
at her. 

“ Hetty seemed to be took back more than I was. To 
own the trut^ mebby I shouldn’t have noticed it much if 
she hadn’t looked so white, and if her eyes hadn’t met 
mine with a wild sort of glitter in them that I had never 
seen before. 

“ Well, after a little, Sarah, what with breaking and 
pulling, unsnarled the yarn, and got up from her knees, 
laughing in a forced way, and flinging back her curls with 
a saucy toss of her head, which made me a’most want to 
kiss her without another wqrd ; but Hetty looked more 
sober than ever, so I put on a serious face, and says I, 

“‘Well, gals, what do you and Mr. Bentley say to a 
sleigh-ride ? The moon’s out, and the sky is chuck full 
of stars. There’s just frost enough to give the snow a 


OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE. 61 

glitter, and to make the bells heard a mile off. Supposing 

we take a drive over the hill, and call on ^ 

Oh, yes,’ says Sarah, clapping her hands, ‘ it’ll be an 
excuse for Dan to call at the Deacon’s three times this 
week : I thought he looked restless at tea-time. What 
do you say, Hetty, dear ? — as for Mr. Bentley, of course 
he goes or stays, as we determine.’ 

“ Mr. Bentley laughed and said, *He was ready to fol- 
low the ladies anywhere ;’ at which the gals ran up-stairs 
to get their things, and I went to the barn to hitch up the 
team. 

‘‘ In less than ten minutes I was at the front door, with 
as harnsome a span of gray horses as you ever saw, all 
covered with bells, and crazy to be off. It was a double- 
seated sleigh, with plenty of buffalo robes, and two little 
foot-stoves in the bottom, that your grandma brought out 
to keep the gals’ feet warm. 

“ Out came the two gals in their long cloaks, trimmed 
with fur, and black velvet bonnets with ostrich plumes 
fluttering at the sides, each with her purty face buried in 
a muff. 

“ Hetty came down to the side of the sleigh first, while 
Sarah stood dancing up and down on the steps to keep 
her feet warm. 

Come, Hetty,’ says I, a-holding out one hand, ‘you 
set with me and help drive.’ She seemed a little out of 
sorts, you know, and I saw her turn away from Mr. 
Bentley when he came up. This was the reason I asked 
her to set in front with me. 

“ She drew back behind her muff, and I saw her look 
suddenly up at Bentley. 

“ ‘ Oh, yes ! get in, get in I’ he said, smiling. ‘ Come, 
Miss Sarah.’ 


62 OLD TIMES AICD THEIR ROMANCE. 

Hetty caught hold of my hand and sprang into the 
sleigh without a word. I was busy holding in the team 
with one hand, and pulling up the buffalo skins around 
Hetty 'with the other, and scarcely noticed what the pair 
behind were doing till Bentley called out : 

“‘Here we are, snug and comfortable. Touch the 
horses up with a flourish. Hart : I feel like a bird to- 
night !’ 

“ ‘A bird of passage, or a bird of prey V said Sarah, 
mischievously. ‘ One thing is certain, Dan, he is in the 
wrong nest. I would much rather have sister Hetty by me. ’ 

“ Hetty did not pretend to hear, but I felt her shiver as 
if with the sudden cold, and pulled the robe over her 
again, saying, softly that ‘ Hetty belonged to me.’ 

“As I tightened the reins and shook out my whip, it 
seemed to me that I heard a sob, but that mmut^ the 
horses started, the bells gave a loud clash, ‘and away we 
whirled around the house, and up the turnpike Jike a flash 
of lightning Set to music. 

“ If you want to see rale downright fun, gal^, try a 
genuine sleigh-ride on a night like that. Horses with 
their blood on fire— bells running over with music — roads 
beat down to marble — snow-balls rattling from the horses’ 
hoofs — clouds of steam pouring from their npstrils and 
freezing into little icicles on the under jaw — ^whip crack- 
ing on the frosty air, and all the naked trees, with every 
twig and bough pictured on the snow-crust that spreads 
and glitters miles and miles around you — with the moon 
smiling overhead, and lots on lots of stars blinking and 
sparkling in its path. I tell you agin, gal, if there is 
genuine fun in the world, that’s it.” 

“ Oh, how I should like to have one good ride like 
that I” said Gillian, sparkling all over with excitement. 


OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE. 63 

“ You shall, gal : when snow comes you shall, or my 
name isn’t iDaniel Hart,” said the farmer, heartily. 

“ With such horses, plenty of bells, and you to drive, 
uncle ?” 

“Yes, yes, we’ll have the old times over again. Trust 
Uncle Han for the team : he’s up to a winter campaign 
yet.” ' 

“And we shall take the same road, and stop at the 
deacon’s ?” 

The farmer drew back in his chair. 

“ The same road ? Stop at the deacon’s ? God help 
us, gal, the deacon, his wife, and that young creature, 
has been dead these ten years. The old house "is^torn^ 
down, and the grave-yard crowds close up to the road as you 
pass. Ko, Gillian: you shall have the sleigh-ride, but we 
must go round the hill, not over it, as we did that night.” 

“ Well, you had a pleasant evening, then, uncle ; and 
that is d great deal, because the memory of one happy 
evening lives forever, you know — forever and ever : so 
tell me of that one happy ride, and we will trust Heaven 
for the next, which is sure to come-^for I always find my 
wishes sooner or later, like fairy gifts, dear uncle.” 

The old man looked down upon her with a glance of 
hearty affection. 

“Always chirk and full of hope, just as she was !” 

“ But I’m afraid — just the least bit afraid, you know, 
uncle — that my dear mamma was making a fool of Mr. 
Bentley ; you remember about the back seat, and all that ?” 

“ It may be, I don’t pretend to understand it up to this 
day. Your mother w'as a young critter that none of us 
could calculate upon ; not even Hetty, who always says 
that we had no right to judge her, because she was so far 
above us all.” 


64 OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE. 

“ Then that pale little lady — Aunt Hetty — how strange 
it seems that you should be telling of sleigh-rides which 
she enjoyed, just as I should now. That nice little lady 
remembers and loves my mother yet. I’ll go and kiss her 
in the morning, hang back as she will — just see if I 
don’t.” 

“ Yes, if ever one human being loved another, Hetty 
loved your mother : to this day, she never mentions her 
name without growing pale and shivering, as if she was 
a-cold.” 

Dear lady I” 

“ That night she seemed troubled about something ; 
pDut we 4iad not driven a mile before she took her hand 
out of its muff, and turning round, held it out to Sarah, 
smiling so sweetly in the starlight, and saying, in her low, 
mild way : 

‘‘ ‘ Is not this a lovely evening, Sarah ?’ 

“ Then Sarah stooped forward and pretended to whisper, 
while she kissed Hetty on the cheek, and insisted on 
changing seats, which Hetty would not think of, till young 
Bentley leaned forward and whispered something, which I 
could not hear in the clash of the bells. 

“ Hetty got up pleasantly, while Sarah threw back the 
buffalo robes, and sprang over into the seat at my side, 
laughing gleefully all the time, and flinging her arms 
around me to steady herself. 

“Then we all settled down again, and I started the 
horses with a crack of the whip that set them off like 
lightning; and in less than ten minutes we were- sitting 
round a great wood-fire in Deacon Warner’s west room, 
with a tray of red-cheeked apples glowing on the hearth, 
and a great stone pitcher of^ ginger cider hissing under 
the red-hot poker that the deacon was warming it up with. 


OLD tImES and their ROMANCE. 


65 


“ Bentley rather hung back when the deacon handed 
round the cider-mug covered with yaller froth, but after 
he fairly took hold there was no stopping him. 

“ I dare say you wouldn’t have thought much of that 
evening ; but I consider it about as near heaven as a 
feller is likely to reach on this side the grave. There 
was my two sisters, looking like angels in the fire-light ; 
and there was the gal I loved better than my own life, 
holding the tray of apples on her knee, while she tried 
one, and then another, with her thumb and finger, search- 
ing out the mellowest for them ; and there was Mrs. 
Warner, knitting away for dear life by a little round 
candle-stand, and Deacon Warner on both knees 4n.#^e 
corner cracking but-nuts with a big hammer, which he 
handed round after the apples and cider. 

“Yes, Gillian, that was a pleasant evening, take it all 
together. We counted apple-seeds, and swung red parings 
three times round, dropping them into letters on the floor. 
Mine always would turn out an M — our Martha was 
narked after her mother, you know — and both Sarah’s and 
Hetty’s were exact B’s, at which both blushed and looked 
at each other so shyly. 

“ It really was a very pleasant evening, especially after 
I went back the last time, after settling the rest in the 
sleigh, and took a last drink of cider, and a kiss that was 
worth ten thousand times as much. Certainly it was one 
of the pleasantest evenings that I ever spent. 

4 


CHAPTER VIL 


THE CLOVE ROAD. 


‘'A LITTLE while after this Mr. Bentley went to New 
York; and, in a week or two, Hetty started down there 
on a visit tO an aunt of ours in the city. She only went 
for two or three weeks, but, somehow, it was spring 
•before she was ready to come home : I remember very 


well the daftadowndillas were out in the garden before 
she got back. If it hadn’t been for my wedding I don’t 
believe that we would have seen her so soon, for she 
seemed restless and homesick enough all the spring. 

“ I forgot‘'to tell you that Sarah went to visit her aunt 
late in the winter, and came home with Hetty. She, too, 
was a good deal sobered down^, and all her sparkling 
cheerfulness had died out. I couldn’t help seeing, at 
times, that she cried a g^od deal in the night, for her eyes i 
were red, and she looked wor;i and tired of a mornin’, as : 
if something lay heavy on her mind. j 

“ I asked about Mr. Bentley, and if the gals had seen ' 
him often ; but they seemed shy of the subject, and I ^ 
calculated that he hadn’t been sociable in the city, as they! 
had a right to expect he would be. Altogether everyl 
thing at home seemed to go wrong, and if it hadn’t been] 
a busy time with me just before my wedding, I should] 
have insisted on knowing the reason why. | 

“ Biit I got married, and while my young wife was] 
66 ' ’ I 


THE G KO V E ROAD. 


67 


getting ready for housekeeping, I spent party much all 
the time at Deacon Warner’s, so happy myself that I near 
about forgot the gals. Something happened, though, that 
troubled me a little. 

“ The post-office was about half way between our house 
and Deacon Warner’s, and one morning, when I was rid- 
ing home bright and early, who should I see but our 
Sarah, with her white sun-bonnet and shawl on, a-going 
into the post-office with a letter in her hand. She came 
out after a minute, and, before I could ride up, turned into 
a footpath that gave her a short cut across the meadows. 

“ I always stopped at the office for letters and papers 
as I went along, so I rode up to the door, calling out to ^ 
know if there was any thing for our folks. The post- 
master came to the door with a paper in his hand and a 
letter, which he handed to me, saying, 

“‘Mr. Hart, I can’t quite make this direction out: it 
seems to be for New York city, but the writing isn’t 
clear.’ 

“ 1 took the letter. It was directed to William Bentley, 
Esq., in Sarah’s Handwriting, but I could hardly make it 
out ; the letters seemed to have been tumbled down over 
the paper. 

“ The whole thing took me by surprise. What on ’arth 
could Sarah be writing to that young feller about ? And 
why didn’t she wait and send the letter to the post-office 
by me, as everybody else did ? While I sat puzzling 
over it the post-master stood a-looking at me. 

“ ‘ I reckon you can’t make it out more than! can,’ says 
he, laughing, and eying me sort of curious, as if he 
thought there was something strange about the letter. 
This brought me to myself. 

“ ‘ Oh, yes,’ says I, ‘ it’s all plain enough : put it into 


68 


THE CLOVE ROAD. 


the York mail and it’ll go straight. If you’ve sent any 
before you ought to know that. ’ 

“ It was mean to pry into Sarah’s secrets in that way, 
but I didn’t think of it then. 

“ ‘ No,’ says he, ‘ I never sent any in that handwriting 
afore, and I shouldn’t a known it if Miss Sarah hadn’t • 
brought the letter herself.’ 

“‘Well, she’s saved me the trouble,’ says I. ‘Good- 
morning,’ and off I rode. 

“ Just where the footpath crossed the road below our 
house I met Sarah, walking alon^with her head down, as 
if she was counting the dandelions in her path. 

“ ‘ Hallo, Sarah,’ says I, a-riding close to the fence just 
as she came up, ‘ what on earth brought you out so arly 
in the morning ?’ 

“ She looked up with a start, and half a scream ; then 
I saw that she had been crying, for drops hung on her 
eye-lashes, and though she tried to laugh, it was more like 
sobbing. 

“ ‘ Oh, Dan, is it you ?’ she said, turning round so that 
I needn’t see her brush the tears away. ‘ It’s a beautiful 
morning, isn’t it? I’ve found ever so many violets by 
the brook up yonder, and as for dandelions, the whole 
meadow lot is golden with them ; then the peppermint is 
just beginning to sprout; capital weather for whitening 
cloth, isn’t it? has Martha got her whbs on the grassy 
yet V ^ 

“ She spoke all in a hurry, huddling her words together,! 
and catching breath at every stop ; her eyes kept turning j 
..from one thing to another, and the color came and went Ij 
in her face, as if she was half frightened to death ; and | 
so she was, poor thing I a 

“ I felt like choking, it seemed so unnatural for Sarah W 


THE CLOVE ROAD. 


to act in that way, and at last I says, ‘ Sarah,’ says I, 
‘what have you been writing to Mr. Bentley about ? And 
why didn’t you keep the letter for me to carry ?’ 

“ She turned as white as new milk, and her eyes glanced 
on me with a wild look, as I’ve seen rabbits do when the 
trap was opened ; but this look didn’t last long ; all at 
once her eyes brightened up, and she turned on me in her 
old, saucy way. 

“ ‘ What is it to you how my letters get to the post- 
office,’ says she, ‘ or who I write to either ? One woman’s 
as much as you can m^age, and she lives over the hill. 
Leave me to take care of my own business !’ 

“ ‘ But what can you have to write about ?’ says T, 
feeling my face grow hot, for it was no joke to wrastle 
with our Sarah when her grit was up. 

“ ‘ Well,’ says she, trying to laugh, ‘ supposing I wanted 
him to send me a book of poems that’s just come out — is 
there any harm in that ?’ 

“‘No, not if you sent the money to pay for it, and 
father made no objections. ’ 

“‘Father I’ says she, and her lips turned cold and 
white ; ‘ father I what is the use in mentioning a trifle 
like that ta him ?’ 

“‘It isn’t a trifle if you make a secret of it, Sarah,’ 
says I, almost sternly. 

“‘You — ^you won’t mention it,’ says she, coming close 
to the fence, and clasping her hands on the upper rail. 
‘That’s a dear, good brother now, do mind your own 
business ; scold your wife — I dare say it will do her good ; 
but don’t concern yourself about what you will never un- 
derstand ; it can only make mischief.’ 

“ ‘ This is very strange, Sarah,’ I was going to say, 
but she stopped me with ^wave of her hand. 


70 


THE CLOVE ROAD. 


“ ‘ There — there I I tell you, Daniel Hart, I am doing 
every thing for the best. You have no right to think 
otherwise. Let me alone — oh, let me alone I’ 

“ She held |ip her clasped hands when she spoke, as a 
little child prays, and the tears rolled down her cheeks as 
I’ve seen the dew fall from a rose in the morning. I , 
shook my head ; then her face fell forward on her hands, 
and she began to sob. 

“ ‘ Oh, Dan, brother Dan, you are cruel to me — very, 
very cruel. This comes of getting married : you do not 
care for us now. It would be a*nice thing to get your 
poor sister into trouble about nothing. You and your 
wife would enjoy it, I dare say. She put you up to it, I 
know that. Well, I have lost my brother, that’s all — my 
only brother, that never refused me any thing till now I’ 

“ Sarah,’ says I, after a s waller or two— rfor somehow I 
felt the tears rising — ‘ Sarah, I dare say it’s all about 
nothing ; only you want to be romantic, and have secrets, 
like the heroines in books ; but somehow these things 
don’t work themselves out clear in real life. You’re 
young, and so full of bright whims that I sometimes feel 
anxious about you. It would break my heart, dear, if 
any harm should come to you ; so don’t be mad because I 
ask questions — it’s all for your own good, Sarah.’ 

“ She began to sob like a baby. 

‘ I know — I know it is ; but don’t say any thing more J 
about that letter : it’s given me trouble enough without ; 
that, I’m sure.’ T 

“ I felt sorry for the poor gal, but yet it did’nt seem j 
right to let her go on writing to a dashing young feller in f 
secret. | 

“ ‘ If it goes, so agin the grain to talk with me, promise t 
one thing, and I’ll be contents just tell sister Hetty all} 

I 


THE CLOVE ROAD. 


71 


about it. She’s a sober, steady gal, and won’t sanction 
any thing that has danger in it: tell her about the letter, 
and I won’t interfere.’ 

“ She looked up so earnestly into my face ; at last her 
eyes began to sparkle, and she laughed. 

‘‘‘Hetty?’ says she; ‘you will leave it with Hett/?’ 

“‘Yes, I can trust Hetty; only tell her all £^bout it, 
fair and square — promise that.’ 

“‘Oh, yes, I promise that!’ says she, laughing again, 
though her eyes filled with tears ; ‘ but you must make me 
a promise also,’ • 

“‘Well, what is it?’ says I, laughing too- — for I was 
relieved at the thought of trusting the affair with our 
Hetty. 

“ ‘ That you won’t mention the letter to any living soul 
— not even to your wife.’ 

“ ‘ Well, I promise that.’ 

“ ‘ Nor mother ; and above all, not to father,’ she went 
on, earnestly. 

“ I thought it over a minute, and made the promise. 

“‘Nor — nor to Hetty either,’ says she, looking at me as 
if afraid that I would refuse. 

“ ‘ Well,’ says I, ‘pledge me your sacred word of honor 
that you will tell Hetty every thing, and I will not men- 
tion the subject again. She will keep you straight, I’m 
sure of that.’ 

“‘I pledge my sacred word of honor,’ says she, 
gravely, while the tears swam in her eyes. 

“ ‘ That’s a good ‘gal,’ says I, reaching out one hand. 
‘There, now, give me a kiss, and jump on behind.’ 

“ She sprang to the top of the fence, puckered up her 
lips till they glowed like an apple-blossom, and gave me 
an old-fashioned kiss, that went straight to the heart. 


72 


THE CLOVE ROAD. 


“ ‘ There, you old darling,’ says she, throwing her shawl 
across the horse, springing up behind me as light as a 
bird, and clasping my waist with an affectionate hug, 
‘there, you blessed old darling, we’re friends again; so 
now strike into a trot as quick as you like, but don’t tell 
anybody that I’ve been farther than the Spring Meadow, 
or they’ll torment me to death with questions.’ 

“ I promised to keep her secret, and put the horse on 
his metal. He was used to carrying double, and went 
off like an arrow. 

“ Hetty stood on the stoop as w^ rode up, looking down 
the road. She turned and went into the house without 
speaking a word, and Sarah followed her, looking down- 
hearted enough. I suppose she hated to tell about the 
letter. 

“ Well, about a week after this an answer came to the 
letter in Bentley’s handwriting. I had told Sarah not to 
inquire for it, for the manner of the post-master didn’t 
quite please me. I was right; for when the letter came, 
he made a great mystery about it, and wanted to send a 
private message ; but -I cut the matter short, asked for 
the letter, and carried it off. 

“ Sarah trembled like a leaf when I gave it to her 

tore it open, then put it into her bosom, blushing and 
turning white every instant, while Hetty stood looking at 
her, still as death. 

“ ‘ Remember your promise,’ says I to Sarah. 

“ She took the letter from her bosom, and going up to 
Hetty, handed it to her, though she had not read a word 
herself. 

“ ‘ There,’ says ghe, flushing red, and turning her face 
full on mine, ‘ will that satisfy you ?’ 

“ Hetty took the letter without a word, and seemed to 


THE CLOVE ROAD. 


73 


read it steadily, but she did not turn over the page, and 
after sitting still a while, got up and went into the house. 

“ Sarah followed her, and just as I was preparing to go 
away again, came to the stoop smiling, quite out of 
breath. 

“ ‘ There, it is all right,’ she whispered. ^ Next week 
Mr. Bentley will be here with his cousin— another Mr. 
Bentley — and then you will know what he has been writ- 
ing about.’ 

“ I felt relieved by her words, and rode over to the 
deacon’s happier than Idiad been for a week. 

“ I saw but little of the gals after that, for they were 
too busy preparing the house for visitors ; every thing 
was at sixes and sevens — carpets taken vup — curtains 
hung — counterpanes whitened — and ceilings whitewashed 
for the day that young Bentley and his cousin were ex- 
pected ; every thing was in order, and the old homestead 
looked cheerful as a spring morning. The fire-places were 
full of hemlock and pine-tops ; and at every corner you 
found an old mug or pitcher crowded full of apple- 
blossoms, lilacs, and snow-balls, till the rooms were 
scented like a garden. 

‘‘ The gals looked as purty as picters that afternoon, in 
their white muslin dresses, bowed up in front with blue 
ribbons ; but they seemed restless and anxious, as if they 
didn’t know what to do with themselves. 

Toward night we all went out into the stoop — for my 
wife Jiad come over, and looked as nice as any of them, if 
Sarah was the most beautiful — and they made a purty 
show, fluttering around in their white dresses, like so many 
pigeons waiting to be fed. At last, jnst as the sun was 
beginning to sink behind the hills, we saw a carriage 
coming round a curve of the turnpike, that you can see 


74 


DOWN THE PRECIPICE. 


from the stoop away down the valley. It was moving 
along what we call the dug road, with a steep hill on one 
side, and a precipice below — a dangerous spot always for 
skittish horses, and one I never liked to travel in the 
night. 

‘‘ Just as we saw Mr. Bentley’s carriage appear on this 
road, a stage-coach came over the hill, thundering along 
as if it had lost time. That minute the blast of a horn 
rung through the valley, and while it filled the air, a sharp 
cry from one of the gals made us all catch our breath. 

“ ‘ See 1 see !’ shrieked Sarah, flinging up her arms. 
‘ Oh, my God, have mercy I — have mercy I’ 

“ Her wild eyes were bent on the distance : we followed 
them in terror. The stage was thundering down the hill ; 
we caught one glimpse of the carriage, which went over 
and over down the precipice ; the sharp yell of the horses 
came to where we stood — and then all was still. I looked 
around ; Hetty lay cold and stiff as death on the stoop, 
while Sarah fell down at her side, holding on to her with 
both arms, and moaning as if her heart was broken. 


CHAPTER yill. 

DOWN THE PRECIPICE. 

“ Your grandfather and I brought out the horses and 
drove like lightning to the spot. We turned down a 
cross-road and so along the foot of the precipice, knowing 
well enough that it was of no use looking for them at the 


DOWN THE PKECIPICE. 


75 


top j for, a long way off, we could see one wheel of the 
carriage where it was wedged in between two rocks, and 
that most awful of all sounds, the groans of a horse, 
reached us long before we came in sight of the poor 
critter, where it lay among the loose stones at the foot of 
the ledge, with a part of the broken carriage across his 
back. He began to whinny as pitiful as a hurt baby when 
we came in sight; and, anxious as we were ^ about the 
human souls, I hadn’t the heart to go by without cutting 
him loose from his mate, which had broken his neck, and 
was dead as a door nail. 

“A little higher up the hill, where the earth sloped 
down from the foot of the rocks, we saw your father sit- 
ting on a piece of rock, and holding his cousin’s head in 
his lap. We hollered out to know if all was right ; but 
he didn’t- answer : there wasn’t breath enough in his body 
to force out a word, but his look was awful. I never set 
my eyes on so white a face in all my life. 

“ We held on by the brushwood and climbed up to where 
he sat with the dead man across his knees. I don’t know 
which was the palest, his or the cold face turned upward, 
as he searched for a breath of life. 

“ I had never seen your father before, but should have 
known him by the look of his cousin ; for, one in his 
cold death, and the other so still and panic-struck, looked 
so much alike that I could hardly tell which was killed or 
which saved. At first I thought it really was our young 
Bentley that asked us, in a faint voice, to try if we could 
do nothing toward bringing the form across his knee to 
life. But a glimpse of the dead face put me right ; so I 
and the old man knelt down and tried our best to bring 
the poor fellow to, but it was of no use : his temple had 
struck against a sharp point of rock, and th^ skull was 


76 


DOWN THE PRECIPICE. 


crushed in, only in one spot, but it was enough to send 
him into eternity. God have mercy upon him, he was 
gone to his last account. 

“ We lifted the dead body from your father’s arms and 
carried it down the hill. While father and I were weav- 
ing some hemlock boughs together for a kind of bier 
to carry him on, your father came slowly down, looking 
pale as ever, and with one arm hanging loose and limp by 
his side. It was easy enough to see that it was broke, 
though he said nothing, only pressing his lips hard as 
they grew white with pain, and giving out a sharp breath 
now and then. We helped him to mount father’s horse, 
and, laying the dead body carefully on the rough bier, 
turned toward home. 

“ We hadn’t but just got to the cross-roads when sister 
Sarah came up, without a sign of a bonnet on, and her 
hair all afloat. There wasn’t a bit of color in her face, 
and I hardly knew her at first, for her eyes seemed as large 
again as natural, and, though blue enough when she was 
cheerful, they shone out deep and black as a thunder-cloud 
now. 

“ She gave one sharp look, first at the man on horse- 
back, then at the poor fellow my father and I carried on 
our shoulders. Then she flung up her arms, and sent out 
a cry so sharp and full of pain, that we stood stock still, 
frightened to the heart by it. 

“ She seemed to be afraid of coming near us, but went 
close up to the horse on which your father rode, and, lay- 
ing her hand on the mane, asked something in a hoarse 
whisper. ' 

He answered her in a low voice, for he was too faint 
for loud words ; but I knew that he was telling her the 
man we carried was dead. 


DOWN THE PRECIPICE. 77 

“ She let her hand fall from the neck of his horse, and 
stood still, as if his words had frozen her. I was loaded 
down with the dead, and could not go to comfort her : so 
when we moved on, she followed after, with great, heavy 
tears rolling down her face, and raising a sob now and 
then that it would have broken your heart to hear. 

“As we went on, moving slowly up the road, I saw 
sister Hetty coming toward us : she looked like one car- 
rying a heavy load that she couldn’t keep from staggering 
under. She saw us winding round a turn of the road, 
and her limbs seemed to wilt under her, for she sunk down 
to the grass and covered her face with both hands, as if 
the sight of us had struck her blind. Sarah ran forward, 
sending back a cry that almost made us tremble. 

“ She came up to Hetty and sunk down by her side, 
winding both arms around her neck, and sobbed dread- 
fully : we could hear her rods off ; it really seemed as if 
her heart was breaking. 

“ Hetty did not look up or move ; but when she heard 
our tramp on the road, she sort of stretched out her limbs 
with a quivering motion, and fell sideways on the grass, 
bringing Sarah, who clung around her, to the ground, and 
turning her sobs into screams. 

“ We stopped a minute, sat the bier down, and tried to 
comfort the gals ; but they clung together, and I thought 
Sarah tried to bury Hetty’s face in her lap till we took up 
the bier again. I felt very sorry for poor Sarah, for after 
that sleigh-ride, the letter and all the rest, it was easy 
guessing why her sobs were so quick and deep. As for 
Hetty, she always was a timersome, soft-hearted creature, 
and the sight of a dead man was enough to make her faint 
away any time. 

“ We went home and the gals followed, creeping heavily 


78 


DOWN THE PRECIPICE. 


along after us with the stillness of two^ghosts. We laid 
young Bentley out in the spare room yonder ; and, after 
helping the wounded young man up-stairs, I got him to 
bed, while your grandfather went after a doctor. 

“ The poor young fellow was in dreadful pain, but he 
choked back his groans and bore up like a hero. I was 
obliged to call Sarah to help to take care of him ; but 
Hetty stayed below with the corpse, half scared to death I 
could see, for when I went down-stairs, once or twice in 
the night, she was sitting by the bed, as pale as the wind- 
ing-sheet, and as still as the form it covered. Her eyes 
fairly frightened me when she looked toward the door — 
they darkened like a thunder-cloud before it bursts. I 
tried to make her go up-stairs, but she only shook her 
head, and so I left her all night alone with the dead man, 
and a terrible night it was to us all. 

“We buried young Bentley in the grave-yard down 
yonder. It was a sorrowful business to us all, for we 
were uncertain who the heir might be, and, for any thing 
we knew, he might not prove exactly the person we should 
want to have power over the farm. So, with the sick man 
up-stairs, and a funeral going from the house, every thing 
seemed gloomy enough, especially as the gals went about 
like ghosts, scarcely speaking a word, and looking at each 
other wofully whenever they met. 

“ After a while we found out that Mr. Bentley, your 
father, was heir to his cousin, and in some sort owner of 
the farm.- He was a splendid young fellow, too : with that 
face and voice of his he might have made any girl fall in 
love with him except our Hetty. I really don’t think she 
ever cared for anybody in the world : she always was a 
quiet, old maidish thing. 


DOWN’ THE PRECIPICE. 


79 


“After the funeral she grew more shy and still than 
ever. 

“But Sarah spent half her time in the sick man’s room, 
and though she seemed troubled, yet I could see with half 
an eye that she was getting over the shock of her lover’s 
death. I said lover, for after what I had seen nothing 
would have convinced me that our Sarah had not been 
heart and soul engaged to the young man who was gone ; 
but if she could forget him and fancy the other, what busi- 
ness had any of us to interfere ? For my part, I was glad 
to see her color coming back, and her eyes growing bright 
again. 

“I don’t know what passed between the young people 
during the six weeks that he lay sick at our house. But 
though she seemed wildly cheerful at times, the trouble 
never entirely left her eyes ; and more than once I caught 
her crying away by herself, which was natural enough 
under the circumstances, you know. 

“As Mr. Bentley grew better, and was able to carry his 
arm in a sling, Sarah’s trouble seemed to increase, and she 
stayed with Hetty in their own room a great deal more than 
I ever remembered to have seen her before. It seemed as 
if she wanted to keep out of our visitor’s way somehow. 

“ He did not seem to like this, and one morning, when I 
rode over to the homestead, and found him sitting lone- 
somely in the front stoop, he asked me in a quiet way if I 
could tell him what particular business his cousin had come 
to the country about, and why he himself had been so ur- 
gently invited to share the journey. 

“ I told him truly enough that I did not know ; when 
he said, with a strange smile, 

“ ‘ I almost supposed it might be a wedding that brought 
him here, from some words that he used in pressing the in- 


80 


DOWN THE TRECIPICE. 


vitation ; but as no one of your family has said any thing 
about it, the object of his coming puzzles me exceedingly. 
Tell me, was our visit expected V 

“ I was troubled how to answer this question, and felt 
the blood grow warm in my face. I remembered how anx- 
ious and restless my sister Sarah had been ; those private 
letters, and the wild anguish with which she met us near 
the precipice, as we were bringing young Bentley away — 
things which our guest had doubtless been in too much 
pain to observe ; but in reality I knew nothing, and what 
business had I to expose my sister’s secret, if she had one ? 

'■ ‘ No,’ I said, angry with the redness of my face, ‘ I 
do not think our folks knew any thing about your coming ; 
and as for a w^edding, there has not been a sign of one, 
except my own, in the neighboThood this year.’ 

Mr. Bentley eyed me keenly, as I said this, but did 
not seem quite satisfied. 

“ ‘ It is strange,’ he said, at last, ‘ but I am quite certain 
that my cousin told me his visit would end in a wedding ; 
and he hinted that my services might be necessary to rec- 
oncile some difficulties that might arise with the family.’ 

“ ‘ But he mentioned no names ?” I inquired, anxious to 
learn more. 

“ ‘ No ; he told me nothing more than I have already 
related. It is a singular affair altogether : perhaps my 
cousin’s papers may give some clue.’ 

“ I thought of my sister’s letter, and felt myself color- 
ing again, for anything like' secrecy made me restless. 
Your father looked at me suspiciously, so I turned away 
determined to speak with Sarah, and if there really was 
any thing between her and the dead to insist on her saying 
so frankly. 


CHAPTER TX. 


THE PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 

“ Sarah was up-stairs in her room, I was told. I went 
up the back way which leads to the upper chambers. 
Sarah’s room was open, but she was not there ; so, hearing 
a noise in the garret above, I mounted another flight of 
stairs which landed me in the open garret, where the trunk 
belonging to the dead man had been stored away. 

It was a common travelling-trunk, strong, and of or- 
dinary size ; but the lock had been wrenched in the over- 
throw, and its hasp was twisted from its fastening, so that 
no key was necessary to open it, 

I saw this at a glance, and also saw my sister Sarah 
kneeling before the trunk, holding up the lid with one 
hand while she searched among the papers it contained 
with the other. She was trembling from head to foot, and 
her face was pale as death. 

“ I stopped on the upper stair astonished by what I saw. 
Sarah was so eager and agitated that she did not hear me, 
but continued her search. I heard letters rustle against 
each other under her hand for a minute longer ; then, with 
a faint cry, she snatched at -something and started up from 
the floor, dropping the trunk-lid, and holding two or three 
letters tied up by a ribbon in her shaking hand. 

“A single movement brought her face to face with me. 
She gave a sharp scream, drew back and sat down on the 
trunk, shaking all over and the teeth fairly chattering be- 
tween her lips. 

5 


31 


82 THE PACKAGE OF LETTE,RS. 

“ She saw me looking at the letters, and clutched them 
tightly between both hands. 

‘They are mine — my own letters,’ she said,- so fright- 
ened that her words came out in gasps. ‘ I have not 
touched a thing that was not my own.” 

“ ‘ Sarah, let me read those letters. I ought to know 
what they are about,’ I said, resolutely, reaching out my 
hand. 

“ She crushed the letters together and held them be- 
hind her. 

“ ‘ Never I How dare you ? What right, I say ? No, 
the letters are mine — mine — mine, I tell you.’ 

“ She shook from head to foot. Her eyes grew fierce 
and black. I know that if I had strangled her, there and 
then, she would have clutched the parcel with her last 
gasp. 

“ ‘ Sarah, I am your brother, and the very best friend 
you have in the world,’ I said, for she was so frightened 
I pitied her from the bottom of my heart. ‘ Tell me what 
all this means. What is there that you should be afraid 
to tell ?’ 

“‘Afraid!’ she said, ‘yes, I am afraid. Let me go, 
then.’ 

“ ‘Are you ashamed as well as frightened V said I, al- 
most sternly, for her terror seemed too great for that of 
an innocent person. 

“ ‘Ashamed 1’ she repeated my question over with her 
old scornful pride, ‘ ashamed ! brother ; how dare you V 

“ Her eyes fairly blazed ; her cheeks were like ashes. 
Then, all at once, her face changed, and drooping down- 
ward as if my question that moment had reached her in 
full force, she said, in the most heart-broken voice I ever 
heard, 


THE PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 83 

Yes, brother, I am ashamed — God help us all ! — and 
afraid too.’ 

“ ‘ Sarah, tell me all.’ 

“ ‘ Brother, I charge you, let me pass ; do not make me 
more unhappy than I am,’ she cried, passionately. ‘ Ques- 
tions can do no good, for I will not answer them.’ 

“ I seized her by both hands. She looked me steadily 
in the eyes, brave as a she-lion. I knew that it would be 
easier to rob a wild beast of its cubs than that girl of her 
secret. She stood still without a word. What right had 
I to use her in that rough way ? She was my sister, and 
I was treating her like a thief. The letters were her own ; 
I knew it by the address, part of which lay before my 
eyes. I dropped her hands. 

“ ‘ Sarah,’ I said, ‘ Mr. Bentley, the young man below, 
has some suspicion of this, and he has questioned me.’ 

“ ‘ And what did you tell him ? What did you know ?’ 

“‘Nothing, sister — nothing.” 

“ ‘But he — he said something. You began to suspect 
me, and came prying up here. Brother ! brother I’ 

“ There was scorn and grief in her words that would 
have made me sink into the earth if I had really done the 
thing she charged me with. As it was, my temper rose. 

“ ‘ No, Sarah,’ I said, ashamed that my voice would 
shake so. ‘No, Sarah. Mr. Bentley, our visitor, said 
nothing that you have a right to be angry about.’ ^ 

“ ‘ But he said something. Tell me what it was.’ 

“ ‘ He only asked what wedding it was that his poor 
cousin came to attend, Sarah.’ 

“ ‘ What wedding !’ she cried, catching hold of my arm, 
and almost shaking me. ‘ What wedding I Did he say 
that ? Did he in solemn truth mention a wedding ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Sarah,’ I answered, looking hard at her ; ‘ and 


84 THE PACKAGE OF LETTERS. \ 

I thought, from his way of wording it, that he had an 
idea that the cousin himself was coming to be married to 
some one in these parts.’ 

I stopped short, for the sight of her face fairly made 
me hold my breath. Her cheeks, which had been pale as 
death before, kindled up ; her lips parted with an eager 
expression, as if some iron spring had unlocked in them ; 
and her eyes — Sarah had handsome eyes when she was 
pleased or angry — shone like stars.’ 

“ ‘ And you believed this ? You thought, perhaps, that ^ 

it was — was ’ 1 

‘‘ She stopped short, and the anxious paleness began to 
creep over her again. 

I understood her, and answered as if she had spoken g 
out. I 

*“Yes, I did think that, Sarah. These letters, your I 
strange ways, all came back to my mind ; and why not ? | 
He was a smart young fellow, handsome and rich. The | 
neighbors might have said it was a good match for } 
you ; but I think you were the mate for his betters any I 
day — for the king on his throne, if such things could 
grow in a free country like ours, Sarah ; so, if it was the 
truth, out with it. The fellow down-stairs seems mighty^ 
anxious to know all about his cousin’s affairs. He spoke 
about searching the papers in that trunk.’ ’ ■ 

“ Sarah clutched the letters in her hand, and laughed. 

“ ' Well, let him search,’ she said. ‘ It is an easy matter 
the lock is torn open, and he will find but few papers.’ j 
“ ‘ But those in your hand, Sarah I’ 

She took my hand in hers, and with one of the win- 
ning gestures which no one could resist, lifted it to her 
lips, hard and brown as it was. « 

“ ‘ Don’t, please don’t ask me any more questions !’ sh^l 


THE PACKAGE OP LETTERS. 85 

said. “ It can do no earthly good, when a thing is over. 
Why give me so much pain ? Can’t you see how I 
suffer ?’ 

“ I took her close to my bosom, and kissed her cheek, 
ready to cry ; for she could make a child of me any time. 
She kissed me back two or three times ; then, leaning her 
head on my shoulder, began to sob. 

“ ‘ Did you love him so much, darling I whispered, 
folding her close again. 

“ ‘ Don’t ask ; but this other man — do not let him ques- 
tion you more ; and, above all, keep my secret about the 
letters.’ 

“ I started, and put her away from my bosom. This 
persistence in keeping a secret which was really no dis- 
credit offended me. 

“‘Sarah,’ I said, ‘this is worse than I would have 
believed of you. Why are you ashamed of this engage- 
ment ?’ 

“ ‘ Think no ill of me, I charge you,’ she said, starting 
back with a haughty throw of the head. “ I have done 
right — will do right, but must be left alone I’ 

‘“ Yery well,’ I said, hurt by her want of confidence, 

‘ you throw away my advice, and do not want my help. 
Good morning, Sarah. You have given me the heart-ache, 
that’s all !” 

“ ‘No, no I’ she said, drawing close to me again. ‘I 
want your help just now. Only give it frankly, and with- 
out these terrible questions. I am not well. You can 
see that watching and crying has made me nervous and 
half sick. I was about to ask you about some way of 
strengthening myself up a little. Hetty, too, is worn out. 
In short, we want to get away from home : you know 
father promised us music-lessons in the city. I am sure 


86 THE PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 

the sea-air will be good for us both. What do you think 
of it, Dan 

“ She spoke rapidly and half out of breath, darting 
quick glances at me from under her eyelashes, as- if afraid 
that I would oppose her. In fact, I did feel like it at 
first ; and was about to say so, but she caught the words 
from my lips, and broke out in a wild, pleading way that 
changed my feelings at once. 

“ ‘ Don’t, oh 1 don’t say that, Dan I I am sick — suffer- 
ing. If you won’t send me away I shall go into a decline 
and die on your hands. Can’t you see how I pine — how 
thin I grow V 

“ She pulled up her sleeve and showed me her arm, 
which was slender enough to frighten one with the idea 
that she was really falling into a consumption. So I 
asked where she wished to go, and how long she wanted 
to be away. 

“ She thought that the best music-teachers could be 
found in New York, and she apd Hetty could either put 
up with our aunt, or find some nice, quiet place for board- 
ing in a private family, if their stay proved too long for a 
visit. 

“ She had thought the matter over very thoroughly, I 
could see that, and seemed to have set her heart on it. 
So I undertook to persuade the old people into letting 
her go, and promised that my wife, so far as possible, 
should come over and supply the gals’ place while they 
were away. 

“ Sarah was full of gratitude. She kissed me again 
and again, and called me her kind, reasonable brother, 
and we parted excellent friends ; but, so far as any in- 
formation was concerned, just where we had met. But 
BO it always was with your mother. She was sure to end 


THE SISTERS AWAY FROM HOME. 87 


in having her own way, and in making everybody think 
it was best too. 

“After this conversation, Sarah grew shy of young Mr. 
Bentley, and left him so much alone that he seemed to 
grow homesick, and began to talk about returning to the 
city. But the doctor, who did not get a, patient of that 
stamp every day, would not hear of it, and so he stayed 
till the girls were ready for their trip to the sea-shore. I 
saw them when they set out — in fact I drove them down 
to the river, with my own team^and, of course, sat wait- 
ing while they took leave of Mr. Bentley in the front 
stoop. He was a good deal flurried and nervous. Sarah 
took her leave with a quiet, proud air, that seemed to 
chill him, for he went into the house and did not wait to 
see us drive off. But the old people stood there so long 
as we were in sight, following us with old-fashioned bless- 
ings — such blessings, Gillian, as no one has time to give 
in these fast days. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE SISTERS AWAY FROM HOME. 

“ It was six months before I saw the gals again. They 
stayed some time with Aunt Mary, and, after that, Sarah 
wrote us word that they had gone to the shore on Long 
Island, where board was cheap and sea-bathing capital. 
Sarah complained a great deal of her feeble health, but 
thought the coast air did her a world of good. She said 
very little about Hetty, only that she could not get along 
without her for a day. Her letters were short, but punc- 
tual. She seemed anxious to keep the old people satis- 


88 THE SISTERS AWAY FROM HOME. 

filed with her long stay from home ; and seldom wrote for 
money, as she and Hetty supplied themselves, she said, 
by doing fine needlework for a store in Broadway, which 
she went to the city, now and then, to get and return. 

“ It was fall before my sisters came home. The sea-air 
might have done them good, but they both looked thin 
and pale, as if overworked ; and I reproached myself for 
letting them toil so hard for their own board so long, 
though, as I have told you, the old folks were in debt, 
and could not help it. 

“ Well, my sisters went to work again in the home- 
stead, and the old place began to brighten up, for Sarah 
grew more easy and cheerful, saying that hard work was 
just what she wanted ; while Hetty took up her old ways, 
only it seemed to us that she was more still and sad than 
ever, spending a great deal of time in her own room, 
where I sometimes saw a candle burning after eleven 
o’clock at night. 

“ Not long after they got back, I found out two secrets : 
one was, that Mr. Bentley had often visited the gals while 
with their aunt ; and the other, that they brought needle- 
work from New York, which they sat up nights to finish. 

“ Sarah was obliged to make me her confidant in this, 
for every month she wanted me to take her down to the 
river on her road to York, Where she would be gone a 
day or two on a visit to her aunt. When I wanted to 
know why she took this extra work, and what she did 
with the money, she reminded me of her music-lessons 
that were to be paid for, and of a hundred pretty things 
which she and Hetty were always wanting, but, to my 
knowledge, never got. 

“ I think Sarah saw Mr. Bentley in some of these visits 
to the city, for she came back more and more cheerful 


rHE SISTERS AWAY FROM HOME. 89 

each month, but kept on working day and night all the 
same. 

“ On her third trip down the river she came back full 
of excitement, and told me, as a great secret, which I 
was to reveal to no one, that she had given up needle- 
work now. When T questioned her, she told me with 
blushes and half crying, for when a pleasant thing came 
to Sarah her eyes always would fill, though she bore 
trouble like a hero : — well, she told me that perhaps, if 
anybody asked her, she might get married some fine day, 
and we •'both laughed at the joke. She was very frank 
and happy during our drive home, for I met her at the 
boat as usual ; and at last told me that she had seen Mr. 
Bentley in l^ew York, and that he was coming up to the 
homestead in a week or two if — if I thought father would 
have no objection. 

“ ‘ Objection ! What objection could my father have to 
Mr. Bentley, whose conduct toward him and his had been 
more than kind ? Surely he might expect to be made 
welcome in a house that was almost his own.’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said Sarah, turning her face toward the sunset, 
though I could see a smile quivering on her lip, ‘ but — ^but 
Mr. Bentley wan ts to take me away with him ; he thinks 
now that he loves me well enough for that I’ 

“I was rejoiced, and gave my horses a triumphant 
crack of the whip that sent them off on a run. I knew 
well enough that Sarah was no fit wife for any of the 
young fellows in our neighborhood. Her high spirits, her 
wit, and the bright thoughts that made every one admire 
her, were not gifts to be buried on a farm, nor drudged 
into tameness by hard work. I had knowledge of the 
world and sense enough to know that, if I had been 
brought up in the country. It would have been like 


90 TH-E SISTERS AWAY FROM HOME. 

forcing a canary bird to dive for its food like a fish-hawk. 
But this was another affair. 

“ Your father was the man of all I had ever seen for the 
husband of a gal like our Sarah. With a college education, 
an honest, strong mind, as handsome a figure as you see 
in a day’s walk, and any amount of property, where could 
another man be found like him ? Yet I felt that Sarah 
was his match every inch of it : her virtues were home- 
virtues, and her studies home-studies, but genuine for all 
that. Even he could talk on But few subjects that Sarah 
did not know something about ; and as for nmnners, if 
ever there was a born lady it was my sister Sarah, if I do 
say it. 

“ Sarah was delighted to see how I took the news, and 
told me in her old, frank way how she had loved Mr. 
Bentley long before she was quite certain that he cared 
for her — how he had almost proposed while she was with 
her aunt, but had been checked off when they went to the 
Long Island shore, without telling him a word about it, 
and seemed to have given her up without a struggle ; but 
in her late visit she had met him by accident in the street ; 
they had walked a long way together, she could not tell 
how or where, for it seemed like heaven to her, for he was 
telling her of his love — his disappointment at her sudden 
departure, which he looked upon as a rebuff, and of the 
bright hopes that he could scarcely Believe real, though 
she had listened to him with so much patience. ‘ It was 
all like a dream — a sweet, bright dream,’ she said, * but 
real, beautifully real, though she never could believe it, 
never I’ 

“It was pleasant to hear her talk so gently of her 
love, and to see the color come and go in her face with 
every look I gave it. I do believe that day she was the 


THE SISTERS AWAY FROM HOME. 91 

happiest creature on earth. She exclaimed at the beauty 
of every thing — the old apple trees with their scraggy 
branches, the patches of moss on the wayside, and the 
sunset. ‘ It certainly was,’ she said, ‘ the most heavenly 
sunset that ever she saw in her life.’ 

“To me now it was a bank of yellow and red clouds 
piled up and heaped against each other, with streaks of 
purple and flame color breaking through ; but she saw a 
thousand other bright things, as people who love poetry 
and dream dreams are sure to do. 

“ I told the old folks of the news, and Sarah told Hetty, 
who chirked up like a bird for two or three days, and 
hovered around her sister in a quiet flutter of happiness, 
like a robin when its mate is on the nest. 

The old gentleman took every thing that came in his 
way as a matter of course. Nothing could arouse his 
pride, for he held things that turn the heads of most 
people at their due worth. 

“ ‘ Bentley is an honest man,’ he said, ‘ and Sarah is a 
good, bright gal : they’ll make a couple that we needn’t be 
ashamed of, Dan — you may be sure of that.’ 

“ I was satisfied. When my father pronounced any one 
an honest man, praise had no higher term for him. His 
pride of integrity was wonderful : he acknowledged no 
superiority but that of goodness and industry. There, 
he was unyielding : a want of integrity the old man 
never could forgive. I think that an|^bsolutely wrong 
act in one of his family would have broken his heart. He 
was the proudest man I eve^f sav^ and the meekest too. 

“ His children all knew this, and respected him accord- 
ingly. My sisters, above all, had great reverence for 
this trait of character, and dreaded his disapprobation 
above all things. Observe me, father was not a cross 


92 THE SISTERS AWAY FROM HOME. 

nor severe man — only a downright honest one, whose 
good character was the life of his life. 

“ Of course a man like this could rejoice in his daugh- 
ter’s prosperity in marrying a man so much above your 
father, for he knew the full value of property, and was 
glad to get it in the family ; but it was the intelligence 
and sterling goodness of Mr. Bentley that touched the 
old man nearest. Had these been wanting, property and 
position would have gone for nothing with a man of your 
grandfather’s stamp. 

“ Well, the time came. Bentley asked the old man’s 
consent in person, and with a few kind, hearty words was 
taken into the family. 

“ Sarah was very happy then. For days and days she 
was beautiful — so beautiful that I would stop to look at her. 
With a creature so smart and full of feeling, happiness was 
beauty, and it shone through her face like light through a 
lamp. In truth, I have seen a great many prettier women 
than our Sarah, but never one whose look would bring the 
heart into your mouth with such a throb of warm feeling. 
So she was haippy as the day was long till after the wed- 
ding-day was set. Then I saw that she began to pine a 
little ; once I found her in Hetty’s room, and they were 
both crying. But this was natural enough, you know : 
the two gals had never been separated in their lives, and 
it was hard to give each other up. 


CHAPTER XL 


END OF UNCLE DANIEL’S STORY. 

“ Well, they were married at last, in the spring time, 
when the apple trees were all in bloom, and the young 
leaves coming out in the woods. There was no wedding 
to speak of, for Sarah, who was always so full of life and 
loved company more than any thing, insisted on being 
married almost alone, with no one but the family by. 
This surprised us all and made a good deal of hard talk 
in the neighborhood, for all her old mates insisted on it 
that Sarah was putting on airs, because her lover was a 
city gentleman and rich. There was no truth in this, for 
instead of putting on airs the dear gal appeared to grow 
more and more humble as the day came on, and it seemed 
as if the saddest part of her life was just before she married 
a man that I am sure she loved better than all the world 
beside. 

‘‘ Hetty, too, did nothing but cry — not that this was 
done before folks, but you could see it in her heavy eyes 
and heavy step too. Poor gal, she really seemed afraid 
of Mr. Bentley, and would turn away from him some- 
times with a scared look that no one could account for, 
for he was gentle and pleasant as could be to us all. 

“ Well, as I said before, they were married one spring 
morning, with the sunshine all around them, and the 
breath of the apple blossoms coming in at the window. 
There was no bridesmaid, for Hetty would not stand up 

93 


94 END OF UNCLE DANIEL’S STORY. 

in spite of all we could say ; and, except my little wife, 
she was the only young person there. 

“ That was one of Sarah’s beautiful mornings — T mean 
as regards herself. She had thrown off all down-hearted- 
ness, and came down-stairs in her white muslin dress, 
that floated around her like a cloud, looking more like the 
angels we see in pictures than any thing else. She had 
a little cluster of crab-apple blossoms in her bosom, and 
a wreath of elder flowers and cherry blossoms around her 
head. She was handsome — yes, Grillian, I think she was 
almost as handsome as you are now, on the day of her 
wedding. 

“ It’s one of the pleasantest things in life to see a bright, 
wholesome girl like her, brimming over with life, and 
with a will that no force could control, tamed down by 
love, with those soft shadows under her eyes, and the eyes 
themselves full of mist. I never loved my sister half so 
much as I did on that day. When she turned from the 
minister, and looked up to him with those eyes so mourn- 
ful and tender the bridegroom kissed her forehead. I did 
not wonder at it, for it seemed as if she had just risen 
from a sacrament-table, with the holy wine on her lips, 
which it would be wicked to touch. 

“ I think Hetty felt like this, for when the bride went up 
to her and reached out her ’arms with a smile, I shall 
never forget how the poor gal clung around her with both 
arms, and kissed her neck, her dress, and her hands with 
a deep burst of crying ; but when Sarah would have 
kissed her sister’s lips she shrunk away trembling all over, 
and sobbing out blessings on her d^r, dear sister, to which 
the old man answered amen, as if he had been in meeting. 

“After this, Hetty and the bride went up-stairs together, 
and stayed a long time. When Sarah came down in her 


END OF UNCLE DANIEL’s STORY. 95 


travelling-dress, ready to leave us forever, Hetty stayed 
behind, and we did not see her again that day. 

“ As Mr. Bentley’s carriage was driving away, Sarah 
looked back so longingly to the old house that I beckoned 
the driver to stop, and went up to say good-by once more. 

“ ‘Dan,’ says she, as I came up, ‘Dan, that’s a good 
brother, bring me a handful of lilacs and some snow-balls, 
from the old bushes, under Hetty’s window : they will be 
something to remind me of home.’ 

“ Mr. Bentley was ready to spring out and gather them 
for her. But she said, with one of her smiles that was 
worth a sermon any day, 

“ ‘ — no, let Dan bring them now ; and you shall 

gather flowers for me all the rest of our two lives.’ 

“I brought the lilacs and the snow-balls, and she. 
gathered them up so lovingly in her hands, it made my 
heart swell, I can tell you. 

“ He drove away slowly at first, for Sarah kept looking 
back toward the house, and we all stood in the porch 
sending blessings after her — old-fashioned, honest bless- 
ings that followed her to the grave I am certain. But as 
they came near the hill, where the bridegroom had almost 
lost his life, and his poor cousin was brought away a 
corpse, the driver whipped up his horses, and they swept 
over the precipice like lightning, and in that spot we lost 
sight of them. 

“ After this ^we were very lonesome at the homestead. 
Sarah wrote long letters to us from her grand house in the 
city ; but we missed her dreadfully. Sometimes a little 
private letter to Hetty "^ame in the larger one, but we 
never knew what was in it : some secret always rested 
between the two. 

“ Once, in the first year, Hetty went down to York, but 


96 END OF UNCLE DANIEL’s STORY. 


she Stayed at Aunt Mary’s, only going now and then to 
see her sister. 

When we asked the reason of this, Hetty said that 
Sarah had so much company, and lived in such a grand 
way, that she felt out of place there. Sarah was just the 
same kind-hearted, noble creature, but Hetty was more 
comfortable with Aunt Mary. 

“I have little more to tell you, Gillian, about your 
mother ; for, with the exception of one or two visits to 
New York, when I put up at her house, and found my- 
self as ^welcome as a robin in the spring, w^e saw little of 
each other. The old gentleman went to see her — that 
was after you were born — and came home delighted. 

“At last, when you were a little more than two years 
old, Sarah and her husband came to the homestead 
again. ” 

“ Yes,” said Gillian, who had listened to this long story 
with deep attention, “ yes, I remember that, and I remem- 
ber how she looked. It seems like a picture — the old 
place and all. But where did my parents go after that 

“ They went to Europe not three months from that 
time. It was a sudden thing, I am sure, for the mail that 
brought us this letter brought also a paper, in which we 
found that they had' sailed. The old man felt a little 


hurt at this, I think, for he was getting so inj^rm and 
childish that any thing like neglect from those he loved 
wounded him. Not, long after this he died, and mother 
followed him in three days, as old folks are apt to do. So 
they never lived to be disappointed by not receiving but 


one letter from sister Sarah, aftd» she sailed for foreign 


parts; or to grieve over the news of her death, when 
it came to us, as if we had been strangers, in an open ' 
newspaper.” 


END OF UNCLE DANIEL’S STORY. 97 

And this is all you know about my poor mother f ” 
said Gillian, painfully disappointed. “ It is a great deal, 
certainly, but not all I expected. Papa so seldom speaks 
of her ; and after that one evening, in this same old home- 
stead, I remember nothing, for it seems they put me in a 
convent-school directly after we reached Italy, and when 
I came out my mother lay in the Campo Sante at Naples.” 

“ Have you seen her grave, niece Gillian ?” inquired the 
farmer 

“ Yes, my Italian servant — one who had been hired in 
^he family when we first went to Italy — often took me to 
one of those heavenly flower-nooks in which the people 
of Naples lay their dead to sleep, and told me that my 
mother was buried beneath the roses there.” 

“ And you read the tombstone ?” 

** A cross of marble — nothing more ; but that was so 
like my father : you know he never could endure to 
register his joy or grief before the world. This is all I 
know of my mother’s death.” 

“ It is strange,” said Uncle Daniel, thoughtfully, “ but 
your father will not talk of her ?” 

Gillian answered, with tender sadness, 

“ Oh, that is like him too, dear, sensitive papa I I 
have often heard him say that a human soul never dies, 
and should only be spoken of as something too sacred for 
every-day speech.” 

Daniel Hart sank down in his chair and heaved a deep 
sigh. Up to this time a vague hope that his sister might 
have left some loving message for him had unconsciously 
floated through his mind. 

“ Still,” said the good man, “still I will ask him more 
about her in the morning.” 

Gillian shook her head. “ I think if there is any thing that 
6 


98 NIGHT VISIT OF AUNT HETTY. 


will give you pleasure, he will speak of his own accord,’^ 
she said ; “ if not, the idea that he has inspired such a 
hope will give him pain. Let us wait, dear uncle.” 

Uncle Daniel gave up his hope with another profound 
sigh ; and Gillian arose from her stool at his feet, sad- 
dened, as if she too had partaken of a wish that was 
destroyed. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE NIGHT VISIT OP AUNT HETTY. 


Gillian stole softly up to her room, for, in a strange 
house, and with darkness all around, she grew timid, and 
was glad to cover herself up in bed. But she could not 
sleep. This ^nversation about her mother, the strange- 
ness of every thing around, kept her wakeful and restless. 

Her bed stood opposite a window which looked into 
the orchard where her mother had played when a child. 
The mellow autumn-moon had risen, and she could almost 
discern the apples as they fell over-ripe from the 
boughs, disturbing a stillness otherwise profound. 

As she lay thus, dreamy and sad, a noise at the door 
startled her. At first she rose from the pillow, and looked 
keenly that way ; but sank down on the instant, as almost 
any girl would have done, huddling the clothes about her 
head. 


The door opened very softly, and a small figure, clad in 
white, stole across the floor, with her head bent forward, 
as if listening at each step. As the figure came opposite • 
the window, Gillian, who, fascinated even in her terror, i 

A 


NIGHT VISIT OF AUNT HETTY. 99 


had drawn the sheet from over her eyes, saw the features 
of Aunt Hetty, who came toward her like a shadow,' evi- 
dently afraid of her own breath. ^ 

Curiosity overcame all fear in Grillian, who lay still, with 
her eyes half closed, watching her strange visitor. Aunt 
Hetty came close up to the bed, sunk on her knees, and 
seemed to be searching for a clear view of Gillian’s face, 
which was a little in shadow even if it had been un- 
covered. 

At last she put her hand softly down, drew away the 
counterpane, and a kiss fell on Gillian’s forehead, so light 
and tremulous that it seemed but a shadow passing over her. 

Gillian closed her eyes, for there was something in this 
act that brought dew into them, and with great difficulty 
she suppressed an unequal breath. Then, emboldened by 
her first effort, Aunt Hetty bent down and pored over that 
young face till ,a heavy tear fell upon it. 

Unconsciously Gillian started, and shmiking together 
as if she had committed some crime. Aunt Hetty slid 
down to her knees, and burying her face in the bed- 
clothes, waited. 

But Gillian controlled herself, and directly sobs came 
at slow intervals from the bed ; then the whispered words 
of a prayer ; and' after that wild, uncontrolled bursts of 
anguish, in which Gillian heard her mother’s name 
repeated over and over again. 

At last this sorrow seemed to wear itself out, and ex- 
hausted its force in faint sobs, ending in profound silence. 
After a little, Gillian felt that her aunt was sitting on the 
bed again, striving to search out the lineaments of her face 
in the shadows. The restraint became painful, and at last 
the young girl opened her eyes, meeting the mournful 
gaze of her aunt, upon which the moon shone brightly. 


V 


100 NIGHT VISIT OF AUNT HETTY. 

Aunt Hetty did not move ; but her eyes wavered like 
those of a person suddenly detected in a crime. 

“Aunt Hetty 1” said Gillian, very softly, “Aunt Hetty!” 

Her little hand stole out of- the bed-clothes and touched 
that which lay helplessly on her pillow. There was 
something in that gentle voice, and the clasp of those 
fingers, that soothed the timid woman. Her fingers closed 
over Gillian’s, and though she trembled, it seemed with 
kindly feeling. 

“Aunt Hetty,” repeated the young girl, “did not my 
mother come in this way to my bed one night, and you 
with her, when I was a little child ?” 

“ And you remember her ? You remember that noble, 
noble mother, and that night when we two prayed over 
you for the last time on earth ?” she answered, in a 
whisper full of tender regrets. 

“As I remember dreams — dreams of angels hovering 
near me,” said Cfillian. “ Your coming to-night made it 
a reality.” 

“ And she is dead — gone from us without a word of 
farewell — a word of — ah I my child, if you could but 
remember any word, any little thing by which I might 
know she thought of us with the old kindness 1” 

“ How I wish so, too, dear aunt ; but it is impossible. 
They took me from her so early : and, in the convent, I 
had so much kindness, that it made me forget easily. I 
remember there was one lady there, a boarder, who came 
to my cell every hight, as you are here now, with a thou- 
sand gentle words and sweet kindnesses, and then the con- 
vent was so pleasant ; that was when I was about five 
years old. She did not stay at the convent altogether ; 
but came with other sisters of charity; sometimes 
staying a few weeks ; sometimes three or four months.” 


NIGHT VISIT OF AUNT HETTY. 101 

“ And this lady was kind to you ? God bless her for 
that !’’ said Aunt Hetty, quietly. “ If it would benefit 
her, I would give an hour of my life for every consoling 
word she said to you.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Gillian, reflectively, “ it was a sweet 
voice, motherly and soft — sweeter than any I ever heard 
in the convent. I wonder what became of her ?” 

The young girl sighed as she spoke ; while Aunt Hetty 
tightened her clasp on the little hand. 

“ I have heard of sisters of charity : they must be 
happy woman, and good ones too, let them belong to what 
church they will,” said Aunt Hetty. “ Perhaps this lady 
is one of them still : for they travel about, I am told. I am 
not sweet-toned, as you say she was ; but, if you will not 
think it strange for me to come into your room now and 
then, 1 should be very thankful. Your mother and I 
slept in each other’s arms till she was more than your age. 
I have grown old and lonely since thefc — no one cares 
for my love ; but, if you would not feel it a burden, there 
are some things that I might do in a quiet way. Don’t 
you think so ?” 

She looked down into Gillian’s face with wistful 
earnestness as she spoke ; and the young girl, lonely in 
her half orphanage, and searching for affection every- 
where, rose up, and threw her arms around that drooping 
neck with a fervor that brought fresh tears into Aunt 
Hetty’s voice. 

“ Don’t mind if I seem silent and stiff before folks,” she 
said, folding the young girl close in her arms : “ it is my 
way ; but if I can save you one pain by laying down my 
life, speak, and I’ll do it.” 

Before Gillian could answer as her warm heart dictated, 
the arms that had so closely embraced her fell away, and 


102 , THE GILDED TEMPTATION. 

her aunt glided from the chamber, shadow-like, as she had 
entered. 

And this was Gillian’s first night under the maternal 
roof. Perhaps the first deep feelings that she had ever 
experienced sprang into existence during*those few hours. 
It seemed as if her father, too, was haunted with unrest ; 
for, all night long, his step was heard by the master of the 
house, who slept beneath his room, walking to and fro. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE GILDED TEMPTATION. 

A SUIT of rooms formed a gorgeous vista of subdued 
carpet, frescoed walls, ceilings from which the glowing 
flowers seemed^’eady to drop in masses, and tall windows 
muffled with draperies, upon which floods of light that 
fell from brackets and chandeliers turned wine-colored, 
and seemed to eddy and flow and ripple downward 
through the silken folds. Upon the walls great mirrors 
gleamed, like lakes margined with gold and buried in 
foliage, some in shadow giving out cool reflections, others 
throwing back light like a crystal pool in the sunshine. 

Those panels which were not occupied by mirrors 
glowed with pictures, through which Bacchus reeled 
under his coronal of grape leaves ; and Yenus appeared, 
over and over again, smiling at his feet, or, with her 
white hands, crushing the purple clusters into his reeking 
wine-fcup. Such gods and goddesses as Rubens loved to 
humanize into coarse beauty, laughed and reeled through 
these pictures ; and though women never entered those 


THE GILDED TEMPTATION, 103 

apartments day or night, you could not turn without 
meeting some bewitching glance, or beckoning attitude, 
which disturbed you with an idea of their actual presence. 
Indeed this luxurious mockery of life fell upon you like en- 
chantment. It was like living over the most splendid scenes 
of a classic romance ; but to the true man there was some- 
thing repulsive in it all — a feeling that the moral atmos- 
phere was unwholesome, as if sighs and unheard curses 
floated still among the rich draperies and sensuous 
pictures. 

That keen intuition, which is the essence of our natural 
senses, till they become demoralized and coarse like au 
over-ripe flower, was sufficient to warn any good man that 
evil associations lurked everywhere around him. But 
few good men ever entered that building. The clink of 
gold, the rustle of bank notes, and the low hum of con- 
versation which filled these rooms through the night 
hours, had little in them calculated to draw the honorable 
and true into that haunt. 

The rooms were full of company, for play ran high 
that night. There was little noise and no appearance of 
confusion : the excitement was too intense for that. But 
the hush of restrained passions is sometimes more strik- 
ing than their outbreak. An abrupt exclamation now and 
then, the hiss of a breath suddenly drawm in, and the 
sharp glitter of an eye fiercely uplifted from the cards, 
alone gave evidence of the contest in reality raging 
through these rooms. 

In the most distant apartment from the entrance a table 
was laid, glittering with silver engraved with the 
delicacy of ice jewelry, and glass that seemed cut from 
the ice itself. 

Forced fruits gleamed richly through this frost-work 


104 T^I E GILDED TEMPTATION. 

of silver ; and the glass, amber-hued and ruby-tinted by 
rare wines that filled it, mingled in one luxurious picture. 
But the whole was tamed down by the chandelier above, 
whose shades absorbed the light like great pearls and 
gave* it forth in moonbeams. 

It was beyond the usual hour of supper, but those 
around the card-table were so intensely occupied, that 
they forgot the hour, and even persons who were evidently 
but lookers-on became so interested in the play that a 
furtive glance was all they could bestow on the dimly 
lighted table beyond. 

Down one side of these rooms ran what appeared to 
be rows of windows, all closely curtained with crimson 
damask which swept the carpet. But these draperies 
concealed the entrance to a series of lateral apartments, 
where the more respectable frequenters of the house 
made up select parties, and trod for themselves a more • 
aristocratic road-to-ruin than those who appeared openly 
in the outer room. 

Among the group that surrounded the faro-table was 
a young man who had been quietly but desperately bet- 
ting for the last hour. He was a tall, handsome fellow, 
whose presence struck you, at first sight, with a resistless 
idea not only of great personal beauty but of correspohd- 
ing intellect. Dark-brown hair, with a wave running 
through it ; large, gray eyes, black under excitement, and 
a fresh, pure complexion, were by no means the first 
things that struck you in his appearance, for these are t 
common advantages that we often meet without notice ; ; 
but his figure, tall and lithe, the repose almost sullen of ■ 
his manner, conspired to excite nearly as much distrust j 
as admiration. The expression of his face, and the self- » 


THE GILDED TEMPTATION. 105 

sufficient repose of his bearing, were points that riveted 
the attention which his fine person invited. 

He had lost heavily, ruinously perhaps, but the wild 
anguish which might have been looked for in a face so 
youthful failed to excite sympathy ; a dead, sullen cloud 
settled on his face, and, with his eyes bent to the floor, he 
turned from the table, moving slowly down the room. 

All at once a stinging sense of his position seemed to 
seize upon him; for, putting one hand into his bosom 
where some weapon was evidently concealed, he turned 
abruptly aside, lifted one of the crimson curtains, and 
stood panting in the recess separated from the large gam- 
bling-hall by the silken drapery and a smaller room, by a 
door through which faint sounds reached his ear, though 
at the moment they did not arrest his attention. After a 
moment the young man conquered his agitation, and drew 
his hand slowly from his bosom, muttering doggedly, 

“ What a fool ! Kill myself here ? Disgrace ! Well, 
what of it ? My name dishonored — who cares ? Where 
did it come from ? Who would feel the shame ? Arrest-— ^ 
oh, there lies the danger !” 

He lifted a hand distractedly to his forehead, as the last 
unpleasant idea forced itself on his conviction, and his 
limbs began to tremble. The gloom of a State’s prison 
hovered over him. As he stood thus, a voice reached 
him from the hall ; for some of the tables had broken up 
and their occupants were passing towards the supper- 
room. A group of two or three persons halted near the 
recess, and, supposing that he had left the establishment, 
were discussing his misfortunes. 

“ The son of a millionaire I” said one. “ Nothing of 
the sort — confidential clerk in the house of N. L. & Co,, 


106 THE GILDED TEMPTATION. 


with a salary which his losses to-night will not more 
thao cover, if the money was really his own.” 

“A splendid young rascal, any way,” answered another 
careless voice, “ and sure to come up with a sharp turn 
if the heads of his firm get hold of this night’s business.” 

“ Which they will, sooner or later, even if it is not their 
cash he has been hazarding.” 

“ Then heaven help him, for the old fellows will have 
no mercy. They belong to the benevolent evangelical or- 
der, and believe in capital punishment, strict justice and 
all that — never saw the inside of a place like this, and 
would be shocked to look upon the outer walls. But who 
is the young fellow ? He didn’t plank his money like a 
novice. His courage ought to have provoked better luck. 
What is his name ? and who are his parents ?” 

“ His name is Hurst — John, Richard, or William, I 
have no idea which it is ; as for his family, if he ever had 
any I am ignorant of the fact. He lives with an old lady, 
some aunt, or cousin, across town, whom his salary ought 
to support, for she has been more than a mother to him, 
and her means are scanty enough.” 

“ But he seems well educated.” 

“ Like a prince. The poor old soul did more than edu- 
cate him for his present calling ; he graduated with first- 
class honors, not a year ago.” 

“He does not seem more than one-and-twenty, now.” 

“Hot so old. Late hours, and this sort of thing has 
dashed all the freshness from his youth ; but he is only a 
boy yet.” 

The group passed on, and, strange to say, the last words 
affected the young man behind the curtains more than any 
that had gone before. 


THE GILDED TEMPTATION. 107 

“ Only a boy I” he repeated, bitterly. “ I’ll let them see I 
Fools, is this night’s work that of a boy ?” 

After this he listened keenly, hoping to discover that 
the inmates of the hall had been tempted off to the supper- 
room, when he could withdraw unseen; but, as he bent 
his head in the stillness, voices reached him, not from the 
hall, but through the door opening from the recess. 

He started, drew himself up with a quick movement, 
and, slowly bending his head again, listened without a 
gesture or a breath. 

Ho words were discernible through the thick doors, but 
the tones of a voice reached him, and the possibility of it 
belonging to one p6rson inspired him with a desperate 
joy. Slowly and softly he unclosed the door, and left 
nothing but a frame covered with green baize between 
him and the room beyond ; a very faint glimmer of light 
flickered through the baize, but it was impossible to see 
more than that, though the voices were now distinct. 

The young man ‘trembled, with impatience. Quick as 
lightning his intellect grasped the means of safety that lay 
in that voice, should it prove the one he hoped. He dared 
not open the door, but softly drawing a small poignard 
from his bosom, he held the sheath in his mouth, as if to 
prevent his breath escaping with the slightest sound, and 
cut a small slit in the baize, through whicli it was possible 
to see all that passed in the chamber beyond. 

An exclamation almost escaped him, for there, at a 
table, earnestly at play, sat the respectable head of his firm, 
the man in whose power his destiny was placed. For 
half an hour he crouched in that recess, watching the gray- 
haired gamblers at their midnight work ; every word that 
fell from their lips was treasured — every gesture recorded 
in his memory. 


108 THE GILDED TEMPTATION. 

At last the party broke up, and the four men prepared 
to depart after appointing a like meeting two nights from 
that, in which the sufferers were to claim revenge for their 
losses. 

The party disappeared through some private door, 
which did not lead to the hall, and thus young Hurst ob- 
tained a secret of the establishment, which he felt sure of 
making available. 

Now he was really excited; despair had made him 
sullen, but the hope born of this discovery, which promised 
both safety and revenge, brought a sparkling light to his 
eyes and changed his entire face. He waited a while, re- 
solving this new state of things over in his mind, and at 
length, smiling with satisfaction, parted the curtains and 
stepped into the hall again. 

As he had conjectured, most of the visitors were in the 
supper-room, and with his usual sauntering composure he 
turned that way. 

“Give me wine,” he said, reaching forth a glass; “I 
wish to drink a toast to a young lady who persecutes me 
with unpleasant attentions, especially to-night.” 

A gentleman filled his glass, saying carelessly to those - 
around him — 

“ Be quiet, will you, while Hurst toasts his lady-love ?” 

“ Oh, ha ! Hurst back again ! pluck in that,” cried half 
a dozen voices. “ Now for the lady.” 

Hurst held up his glass to the light, smiling with super- 
cilious foppery on the wine, as one might be expected to 
smile who could utter a lady’s name in such company. 

“ Come — come.” 

“ I drink,” he said, lifting his glass with a mischievous 
twinkle of the eye, “ to Miss Fortune,' the coquette, and 
shall be very glad to turn her over to any of you gentle-^ 


THE GILDED TEMPTATION. 


109 


men at a moment’s warning. One flirtation is enough for 
me.” 

A laugh went round the table, for there w'as a raciness 
and dash about the young fellow that made even second- 
hand wit acceptable. Indeed the whole company were 
lost in admiration of the wonderful self-possession that 
marked his behavior. Among all that company he seemed 
the most free from care or self-reproach. 

“ The boy will shoot himself before morning,” whispered 
one of the men who had made his losses a subject of con- 
versation near the recess. “ This is recklessness — not 
philosophy.” 

‘‘ I think not,” was the reply. “ See how steady his 
hand is, how cheerfully his lip curves. I tell you the 
fellow takes it coolly : an old stager of sixty could not 
carry off his misfortunes more bravely. Look at him 
now.” 

‘‘A splendid animal, isn’t he ? By Jove, if I had that 
figure, it should command an heiress with any amount of 
rocks.” 

“ But that sort of speculation has so many unpleasant in- 
cumbrances,” was the reply, “especially in a State where 
women hold their own property, and divorces are next to 
impossible ; the laws have almost ruined that sort of 
thing. But if you have finished that bird, let’s follow the 
youngster. He interests me.” 

The two men arose, and followed Hurst down the 
room ; he knew them slightly, and paused as they came 
up. One was an elderly man, bald, and sleek of face, 
with a shrewd eye, and gentle manner. The other ap- 
peared somewhat under thirty, and prided himself on 
being not only a man of the world, but a man of the 
peculiar world assembled in those rooms. 


110 


THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 


“ Do you make an effort to retrieve said the elder, 
pointing to the faro-table. 

“Not to-night,” answered Hurst, smiling. “You re- 
meihber my toast. One does not get rid of a lady-love 
so easily; besides, I am sleepy. Good-evening, gentle- 
men.” 

With a bow and a slight wave of the hand, Hurst 
passed on down the room and away, leaving the two 
gamblers looking at each other, half amused half dis- 
dainful. 

“ He’s a trump 1” said the younger. 

“Young America !” sneered the elder, in his silky way. 
“ The boys are crowding us out everywhere.” 


, CHAPTER XIV. 

THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 

A LITTLE out from New York, on that side of the 
Bloomingdale road which commands a picturesque view of 
the Hudson, within sound of the city, and yet not exactly 
in it, stood a pretty cottage. It was back from the road, 
and so near the river that, in the morning, a p.ortion of 
its shadow fell upon the water. It was almost concealed 
from the road by a growth of old forest trees. The river 
bank was broken and rocky, affording pretty hollows, 
where the ferns grew thriftily, and flat ledges, on which 
the moss lay like a carpet. The cottage had once been a 
farm-house, but judicious improvements had recently 
transfigured it into a picturesque home, unlike any dwell- , 


THE AUTHOKESS AT HOME. Ill 

ing within view. A porch thrown out in one direction, 
a baj window here, a balcony there, and clinging roses 
and vines wreathing all into harmony, made the house 
neither cottage, farm-house nor villa, but a most desirable 
residence, for all that. The house was a type of nothing 
but itself ; or, it may be, of the person who inhabited it. . 

She was a woman of middle-age — an earnest, active 
woman, full of energy, rich in feeling, and endowed with 
a rare intellect, which had,vat the time she presents her- 
self in this narrative, won for her commanding influence, 
and a wide reputation. This influence sometimes bore 
heavily upon herself, from the duties of charity or social 
kindness which it imposed ; and the reputation, brilliant 
as it was, she scarcely felt, so gradual had been its 
growth, and so little had she sought for it as a result of 
her labors. 

This woman was an author. Not a mere literary lady 
capable of little snatches of song and pretty trifles, that 
live and die in the world of letters like wild flowers . in a 
wood ; but a maker of books, a worker-out of thought in 
its grandest and most beautiful form. She was, at once, a 
poet, a prose writer, an artist in soul, and a woman of 
society. 

The room in which she sat opened upon the river, which 
flowed pleasantly on in full view of the broad window before 
which her writing:table was placed. Book-cases, crowded 
with volumes, covered every available part of the room. 
A marble head or two looked calmly down upon her as 
she wrote ; and the. picture of an old man, that hung 
over the mantle-piece, seemed to watch her with grave 
interest as if he alone knew the history of her life and 
intended to guard the secret. 

There was none of the frippery, with which female 


112 THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 

writers in their callow days love to surround themselves, 
in that room. Julia Ransom had got far beyond all that 
in her ascent up the hill of life. Two or three substantial 
easy-chairs, cushioned with embroidery wrought by the 
female friends who loved her, stood about. A footstool 
to match, from which the roses were worn out by the con- 
stant pressure of her slipper, stood near a table covered 
with crimson, and littered with pens, paper, books and 
pencils, with a bronze ink-stand after the model which 
Ariosto left. These objects, with a crimson couch, on 
which she sometimes rested after the excitement of hard 
writing, were sufficiently feminine in their appointments, 
without misleading you as to the character of their owner. 

Julia Ransom was alone and writing, for it was the 
morning hour, and she usually commenced early and 
wrote late till her task was done, throwing her whole 
being into the event she narrated, or the pictures that she 
drew. Had you spoken to her, at such times, she prob- 
ably would . not have heard you, save to be slightly an- 
noyed by the sound. Had she answered you, the words . 
would have escaped her lips unconsciously, and she might 
have given you all she possessed on earth without know- 
ing it. Once fastened upon a train of thought, it seemed 
impossible to wrench her mind away, and from this arose 
the vigor and intensity which marked all that she wrote. 

Yet Julia Ransom never seemed alone, for the old man 
over the mantle-piece was like a guardian to her always. 
She would sometimes lift her face from the half-written 
sheet, and look upon the old man with smiling lips and 
an earnest expression of the eyes, which it seemed as if 
the very canvas must recognize and answer back with 
sympathy. Then she would dash into her subject again, 
and sheet after sheet left her hands, till she grew pale - 


THii AUTHORESS AT HOME. 113 

with exhaustion, and drooped forward, with her arms 
folded on the table, gazing upon the river, too weary for 
exertion, yet unable to withdraw her mind from the drama 
it was creating. 

She was sitting thus, with blank paper under her folded 
arms, and scattered manuscript lying at her feet, when the 
door softly opened, and a Madras kerchief, crowning a 
handsome, copper-colored face, was thrust through the 
opening. 

Mrs. Ransom did not look up ; so the handsome mulatto, 
to whom the kerchief and face belonged, stole softly 
across the room, and stood so as to throw her shadow 
across the paper on which her mistress was writing 

Mrs. Ransom looked up, impatiently. 

“ Well, Ruby, what is it ?” she said, beginning to write 
again. 

“A lady — a young lady — came in an open carriage, 
white horses ; boy behind with a cockade and band ; 
colored driver, looks like a prince right from Africa.” 

“ Who is the lady. Ruby ?” 

“ Here’s the card. Miss.” 

Mrs. Ransom leaned back in her chair, drew a hand 
across her forehead, and languidly received the card. 

Miss Gillian Bentley 1” 

She read the name over two or three times, drew her 
hand again and again across her eyes, then arose and 
went to the door. 

No,” she said, hesitating, with her hand on the knob. 

Let the young lady come to me here.” 

The girl went out, while Mrs. Ransom paced up and 
down tfie room two or three times, apparently annoyed 
by the intrusion of a stranger upon her occupation. She 
1 


114 THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 

was in the middle of the room, and s^ood, with her eyes 
on the door, when it opened to admit Gillian. 

The young girl was a good deal embarrassed ; for, the 
reputation of Mrs. Ransom, with a certain reserved shy- 
ness, which was neither pride nor bashfulness, had its 
effect on her frank nature : besides this, the lady did not 
advance, or smile, but stood, gazing on her with a long, 
wistful look, as if she had been the picture of some old 
friend. 

At last Gillian stepped forward, blushing to the temples, 
and said, in a frank, childlike way, 

“ You were busy to-day, and I am intruding : pray let 
me retire.” 

“No I no !” Intrusion ? no I” was the confused reply. 
“ Be seated, here by the window. I am not busy — far 
from it.” 

Gillian sat down in a chair near the window. Mrs. 
Ransom took her old seat, and, for a little time, there was 
profound silence . between them. The young girl looked 
out upon the river ; the lady sat gazing on her. 

“ Indeed, I fear the visit is unpardonable,” she said, at 
last, glancing at the lady. 

“ Did you speak ? I beg your pardon ; but — but really 
I am a little distraite this morning. You wished to see 
me — to ask some questions, perhaps. Have no reluctance ; 
it is not an uncommon thing for me to receive strangers, 
especially those who have real or fancied sufferings. 
You do not seem of that class.” 

“ No, no,” said Gillian, “ I have no sorrows to speak of; 
and, if I had, I should not bring them here, or anywhere 
else. It seems to me that griefs are sometimes heavenly 
gifts, and should only be share^ with divinity.” 

J ulia Ransom’s face kindled up, and the color broke into 


THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 115 

her face, which had, up to this time, been singularly 
pale. 

“ But would you withhold joys as well as griefs from 
friendly sympathy she said, with a smile that brought a 
glow into Gillian’s face. 

“ No, indeed. Joy should be shared with every one like 
the sunshine and other bright things. I wish it were in 
my power to fill your world with it, lady, for your writings 
have made half the happiness I ever knew.” 

Julia smiled, oh, such a bright, glorious smile ! Words 
like these, full of sincerity and truth, were a beautiful 
reward for her toil of thought. 

“ You like my books, then ?” she said, gently. 

“ Like them ? Oh, lady, if I had but words to tell you 
how much I” 

Mrs. Ransom hesitated, smiled, and then, with a 
slight tremor of the lip, and some, unnatural restraint, in- 
quired if Gillian’s parents also approved the books she 
had written. 

The face of the young girl clouded painfully, and she 
answered that she had but one parent living — her father ; 
and it was from him she had, at first, learned to love those 
books. 

“ He reads them — did you say ?” asked Mrs. Ransom, 
in a low voice. 

“ Indeed he does. My father is a learned man, you 
must know, and his mind is given to research and science 
rather than what is called light reading ; but he is fond of 
the classics, and sometimes takes up a modern novel for 
an hour. It was in this way he became interested in your 
writings. We were in Europe, and a translation fell in 
his way. The translation of an American book was a rare 
thing till lately, you know, and this fact drew his attention. 


116 THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 


I think I never saw him so much interested in any thing 
as he was in those books. I never saw him cry but twice 
in my life, and once was while he was reading them. In- 
deed his eyes were dim with tears half the time. It was 
a strange thing to see him feel so deeply, especially where 
the subject was a fiction.” 

The book which makes you feel deeply is never a fic- 
tion. It is the truth which appeals to any heart success- 
fully, no matter in what form yon disguise it,” said Julia 
Ransom, with emotion. 

“ I am sure of that,” answered Gillian, who was becom- 
ing more and more interested in the lady. It seems to 
me impossible that there should be no deep emotion in the 
heart of a writer who can draw tears from the souls of 
those who read. I should have no respect for the author 
who could excite feelings she did not herself know.” 

ISTo author can excite feelings which she does not her- 
self know, either through experience or the imagination,” 
answered Mrs. Ransom, earnestly. 

“ This was exactly what my father said !” 

Mrs. Ransom did not answer, but arose and walked to 
the window. Then she turned with one of her bright 
smiles, and laid her hand on Gillian’s head. It was a 
beautiful picture — that noble woman, with her face elo- 
quent of some grand but unexplained feeling; and the 
blushing girl, who lifted her eyes, with an expression so 
gentle and pleased, to meet the glance which fell lovingly 
upon her. 

“You do not seem like a stranger to me, dear lady,” 
said Gillian, as the hand glided softly adown her tresses ; 
“ but then, to whom could you be a stranger ? I was 
afraid of being disappointed — everybody said it must be 
so — but — but — — ” 


THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 117 

She stopped suddenly, and her eyes filled ; for the lady 
stooped down and kissed her on the forehead, so fervently 
that it left a crimson flush behind. 

Gillian started up with a quick impulse, attempted to 
throw her arms round the lady’s neck, but dropped them 
again, blushing, and frightened at her own familiarity. 
But the lady reached forth her arms and drew the fair girl 
to her bosom, murmuring soft words over her, which Gil- 
lian could never- remember afterward without a swell of 
the heart, though their exact import never reached her. 

“ I hav6 written to you so often, dreamed of you, 
thought of you. Oh, I wonder if every one worships 
genius as I worship it in you !” 

Gillian laid her head tenderly down on the lady’s shoul- 
der as she spoke ; and Mrs. Ransom smoothed her hair 
while she smiled upon her. 

“ Then you have written to me ?” 

“ Yes, so often, and you have answered me too. It is 
now six months since I first ventured on a letter. I was 
sad, very sad then ; for we had just come to the country, 
and some things that were told me about my family made 
me thoughtful. Besides, I am full of wild fancies, and so 
must put them into poetry. I dared not show them to 
my father, or any one, but sent them to you under a feigned 
name. You liked the poetry and the letters a little, I 
suppose, for your answers were very kind, and so I came.” 

“ Thank you, love ! a thousand times thank you I So 
it was you sent those letters, and the poetry. It was a 
I pleasant introduction,” said Mrs. Ransom. “ I have little 
! time for letter- writing, but yours were so natural, and 
I frank, that I could not help answering them.” 
j “I was determined to know you in some way,” said 
j| Gillian, with a childlike laugh. “With no mother or 


118 THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 

sister, I sometimes feel very lonely. The society here 
seems strange, and I long for some one to love : not a 
young girl like myself, but a woman, older, wiser and more 
kindly than girls are to each other. Oh, lady, you would 
pity me if you knew how I sometimes want a mother !” 

Mrs. Ransom’s face changed. Some gloomy thought 
seemed to force all the cheerfulness out of it. She held 
Gillian close to her bosom, which scarcely appeared to 
throb with a breath. 

“ Oh, if I only had a child like you ! but it can never 
be. I am a lonely woman, chastened, irritable at times ; 
a daughter’s love would be heaven to me ; but I am used 
to living without affection.” 

“You, lady? oh!” 

Mrs. Ransom smiled a sweet, piteous smile, that 
brought the tears into Gillian’s eyes. 

“ Except from the poor that I can serve, and the friends 
who never thoroughly know one. ” 

“ But, lady, you have so many friends. It seems as if 
you must be so happy. Success, reputation, the greatest 
of all blessings — a free expression of thought.” 

“ You misunderstand,” answered the lady, with a grave 
smile. “ I did not speak of myself as absolutely unhappy, 
but childless, without family ties, and very lonely at times. 
But even outside the affections life has a great many plea- 
sures, which no one is warranted in casting away because 
he or she cannot grasp every thing. It is something to 
give happiness — to have earned the power of conferring it. 
There is absolute pleasure in labor, be it of thought or 
action. Do not think, young lady, that I complain or 
imagine misery poetical— far. from it: grief is frequently 
more selfish than joy. When I say that one blessing is 
denied to me, that of kindred and household affections, it 

I 


THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 119 

is but to share the fate of hundreds more worthy than 
myself, who, perhaps, have not so many resources of hap- 
piness as I posesss. It must be a gloomy nature, indeed, 
which cannot find in this beautiful world more sunshine 
than storm.” 

“ But you, so affectionate, so warm-hearted, to exist 
without a return of affection, that seems to me impos- 
sible ; it is starving the heart I” 

“ No, it is only withholding its most exquisite nutri- 
ment. There is enough that is wholesome and good left, 
on which an earnest nature can live, and thrive, too,” said 
Mrs. Ransom, with one of those noble expressions that 
bespoke so much earnestness. “Duties have their value 
as well as feelings ; thought is rich with pleasure when 
properly exercised. Believe me, child, it is far better to 
be useful and good than to be happy.” 

“ But I so hoped and wished to find you happy !” 

“And so I am,” answered the lady, with a low sigh. 
“ Remember this is but the beginning of eternity with us : 
the first rudiments of any thing are sure to be acquired 
with mistakes and difficulties ; but time and effort conquers 
all things. If our first lessons in life are full of disap- 
pointments, the future is before us in which they can be 
turned into blessings, if not in this life, in that to which 
we go.” 

The solemnity and gentleness with which all this was 
said touched Gillian profoundly. It reminded her of many 
conversations she had held with her father: the same 
sweet pathos was there, the same proof of deep thought. 

“ This is so like my father’s,” she said, lifting her ear- 
nest eyes to the noble face bending over her. “ Oh, how 
I wish you knew my father !” 

The features on which she gazed broke into a smilo of 


120 THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 


unspeakable tenderness : but the lady made no answer. 
She sat gazing into Gillian’s face with a look so wistful 
and sad, that the young girl bowed her head and began 
to weep. 

“Forgive me,” she said, shaking the tears away, and 
laughing like an April morning. “ I am always fancying 
strange things — and that njoment it seemed as if we had 
been acquainted thousands of years.” 

“Be careful how you indulge in wild thoughts like 
these,” said the lady, with a gentle shake of the head. 

Gillian colored and looked distressed. It was seldom 
that even the most gentle rebuke was extended to her, and 
she scarcely knew how to receive even this delicate cau- 
tion. But when Mrs. Bansom smiled again, it was apo- 
logy enough. 

Gillian arose to go, but, as she stood with her hand in 
the lady’s clasp, the door was again opened, and the 
mulatto glided in. ^ • 

“ Mr. Hurst,” she began to say ; but that instant the 
young man, whom we saw last in the gambling-saloon, 
came hurriedly in, pushing the girl aside as he entered. 

“ My dear madam, what has come over Ruby ? She 
insists on announcing me as if I were an ambassador.” 

Here he saw Gillian, gave a little start, and bowed pro- 
foundly. 

“ I beg pardon,” he continued. “ I see now what my 
impatience prevented her telling me. You are engaged.” 

“ No, no,” said Gillian, in her prompt way, “ I was just 
going. Mrs. Ransom will forgive me for having stayed 
too long already.” 

The young girl turned her eyes on Mrs. Ransom^ as she 
spoke, and saw that the lady had become suddenly pale, 


THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 121 

that her eyes sparkled, and a strange excitement shook the 
hand she still clasped in her own. 

Hurst smiled and drew near; his audacity was graceful, 
but not the less offensive to Mrs. Ransom for that. 

“ I shall never forgive myself, if 1 drive so much beauty 
away by this rude intrusion,’^ he said, covering Gillian 
with his bold glance of admiration. 

Mrs. Ransom started ; her eyes flashed, and a frown 
swept her brows heavily. Gillian was terrified by the 
haughty anger of that look ; and Hurst drew a step back, 
evidently surprised by it. 

Still grasping Gillian’s hand, the lady led her from the 
room, sweeping by Hurst with the same angry look, and 
closing the door after them. But the moment they stood 
in the tiled pavement of the hall, her face changed sud- 
denly, as you see a storm go off in summer. 

“ May I come and see you again ?” whispered Gillian, 
rendered timid by the anger which had passed away. 

“ Does — does your father know of this visit ?” 

“ Yes ; I told him of my great wish to §ee you, and he 
consented.” 

“ Then come again when you desire it. Often, very 
often, if you can learn to love me a little.” 

“ I love you already,” was the reply. 

They parted in the hall, but instead of returning to the 
room where young Hurst was waiting, Mrs. Ransom 
stood by the door motionless as a statue, and gazed into 
[ the distance long after the carriage, which conveyed Gillian, 
I disappeared in the winding road that led from her house, 
i At last she was disturbed by a hand laid on her arm. 

I Young Hurst had come from the study, impatient of her 
absence, and with his usual daring broke in upon her 
reverie. 


122 


UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 


She drew a deep breath, and turned toward him with a 
smile ineffable happiness. But the moment her eyes 
met his the smile was gone, and she returned to the study 
with evident reluctance. 


CHAPTER XY. 

IVIRS. ransom’s unexpected visitors. 

As Mrs. Ransom entered the room with young Hurst, 
a faint shudder passed hver her as if it was repulsive to 
find herself again in his presence. 

Then her face softened as she looked toward him ; some 
tender memory was evidently struggling at her heart, 
which, for a moment, asserted its supremacy over the dis- 
pleasure which his appearance had at first caused her. 

‘‘ Michael,” she said, softly. 

He turned toward her, and she made a movement to 
lay her hand caressingly upon his shoulder ; but, looking 
ip. his face, she met the same smile which had so irritated 
.her when she saw the young girl blushing beneath it 

“ Did you speak ?” he as\ed. 

“ It is nothing,” she replied, abruptly ; “ I had for- ' 
gotten that it was you.” ■ 

“ What a glorious bird of paradise that was I frightened 
away 1” he said. “ I felt quite guilty at having startled ' 
her so.” J 

Again Mrs. Ransom’s face darkened with stern dis- 
pleasure, and she replied coldly : .| 


UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 123 

had given strict orders not to be disturbed: the 
young lady desired to see me alone.” 

“A thousand apologies for the intrusion, dear madam,” 
be returned, with easy assurance, “ but it never occurred 
to my mind that such a command could apply to me.” 

“ 1 should prefer to think that some urgent business 
made you so unceremonious,” said Mrs. Ransom, with 
severity. Certainly the indulgence and kindness which 
I have shown you would be a poor reason for presuming 
to disobey my wishes.” 

Hurst bit his lip to keep back the angry retort which 
her words suggested. He knew her varying moods, and 
saw that she would permit neither trifling nor imperti- 
nence ; and, as he had a favor to ask, he could not venture 
to irritate her. 

“ Forgive me, dear lady,” he said, taking her hand re- 
spectfully and pressing it to his lips. “ I believe I am 
a rather spoiled child, but you know well that for the 
world I would not offend you.” 

Mrs. Ransom quietly withdrew her hand, and the dis- 
pleasure in her countenance gave way to an expression 
of sad thoughtfulness. She motioned the young man to 
be seated, and sank back in her own easy-chair, leaning 
her head upon her hand, while her eyes fastened them- 
selves on the picture over the mantle-piece, earnestly as 
if she were asking counsel of the face that looked so 
kindly down upon her. She seemed to have forgotten 
the young man’s presence, and, vjhen he -ventured at last 
to break the silence, looked wonderingly around as if sur- 
prised to find that she was not alone. 

“ Pray where did that splendid creature spring from, 
Mrs. Ransom ? I do not remember having seen her here 
before. ” 


124 UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 

“ It is the first time she has ever visited me.” 

“ I hope, at least, it will not be the last, for certainly 
she is one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw.” 

Mrs. Ransom looked annoyed ; her foot began to tap 
the footstool impatiently, a habit she had when irritated 
or anxious. 

“ It is not probable that she will come again,” she said. 

“ Then you do not know her ?” 

“I do not. She came, as many. young girls do, from 
a desire to see a woman who has written books.” 

“ But at least yon know her name ?” 

Really, Michael, your curiosity seems wonderfully ex- 
cited. Might I be curious in turn, and ask what brings 
you here, this morning ?” 

“ I had some business, I believe,” he replied, with a 
gay laugh ; “ but to tell you the truth, the sight of so 
much loveliness has quite driven it out of my head.” 

“ Then you will not think me rude if I go on writing, 
while you try to recall your errand ?” 

I see you are determined not to gratify what you are 
pleased to style my curiosity concerning your visitor.” 

“ I am quite unable to imagine how you can be in the 
slightest degree interested in a perfect stranger, Michael.” 

“Do you think any man would not be bewildered by 
the sight of an angel like that ?” 

“You are growing poetical, young gentleman^some- 
thing I never remarked in you before.” 

“Ah, now you are going to be satirical, and you know 
I never can answer your sarcasm.” 

Mrs. Ransom frowned impatiently and took up her 
pen. 

“As I am somewhat hurried to-day, you must permit 
me to work. Whenever you have exhausted your rap- 


UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 125 

tures, and- can recollect your business, I will listen to 
you.” , “ 

^ “I have troubled you so much of late, dear madam, that 
I am almost afraid to annoy you again.” 

You know, Micbael, that I am always glad to serve 
you, and I am never annoyed by listening to any thing in 
which you have really an interest.” 

‘‘ Then, perhaps, you will tell me the name of your 
visitor ?” said Hurst, laughingly, and with one of those 
quick changes of manner peculiar to him. 

‘‘Your jesting is ill-timed,” Mrs. Ransom replied, 
almost harshly. “ If you indeed desire my advice, you 
have'only to ask it ; but I have no leisure for such trifling.” 

Hurst moved impatientiy in his chair, but did not ven- 
ture a reply. The least opposition to his wishes was 
always sure to excite him ; and in this sudden interest for 
the youthful stranger there was something beyond the 
momentary attraction of girlish loveliness. There was a 
vague suspicion in his mind, which he was burning to 
have resolved into certainty ; but he knew Mrs. Ransom 
too well for any idea of venturing upon farther importu- 
nity for the moment. 

She had fallen back in her former attitude of mournful 
meditation. One saw at a glance that it was no new 
I grief which moved her, but some great sorrow which 
; , came out of the past, and had been her constant companion 

1 for years. 

j Hurst looked curiously at her. She was a singular. 
I study during such moments ; and he was a man of suffi- 
j ciently vivid imagination to weave in his mind innumerable 
I wild fancies while watching her protracted re very. 

At length Mrs. Ransom roused herself with an effort 
I and turned toward him again. 


126 


UNEXPECTED VISITOKS. 


“You must excuse me this morning,’’ she said, with a 
troubled smile, “I really am not quite myself; I have 
been writing steadity for hours, and the exertion has left 
me strangely weary and absorbed.” 

“ One might think that, after so many years of continued 
labor, writing would have become almost a mechanical 
effort,” Hurst remarked. 

“On the contrary, it seems to me that every year I 
write with more earnestness of purpose, throwing my 
whole soul into the task much more completely than dur- 
ing my youth, when authorship was a passion and not a 
power.” 

“ Something more than mere fatigue seems to trouble 
you,” he ventured to say. 

“ What else should ?” she asked. 

“ Nothing that I know of. I thought possibly your 
visitor had brought you some unpleasant news.” 

“ I have told you that she was an entire stranger to 
me.” 

“ She might have resembled some one whom you knew 
formerly. We can never account for the fancies and. 
reminiscences a. strange face often arouses.” 

Mrs. Ransom looked up quickly, but the young man 
had averted his eyes. He was toying carelessly with one 
of the bronze ornaments upon her table, and seemed to 
have uttered the words with no thought beyond the 
moment. 

“Your remark is sufficiently true,” she replied, drawing 
a deep breath. “Very often the sight of a picture or a 
beautiful landscape will arouse the same feelings ; they seem 
like places which we have seen before, and remember like 
objects in a dream, or some memory from a previous life.” 

“ That young girl was lovely enough to have been the 


UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 


127 


reality of a poet’s ideal. I have seldom seen such grace 
and beauty united with so much childish simplicity of 
thought and manner.” 

“ She was indeed very lovely,” Mrs. Ransom murmured, 
as if thinking aloud — “very, very lovely.” 

Hurst had led the conversation back to the visitor in 
the hope of discovering her name ; but at that moment 
his eye fell upon a card which had fallen near his chair. 
He allowed his handkerchief to drop, and in stooping for- 
ward to pick it up managed to secrete the card among its 
folds. Quick as the action was, he found an opportunity 
to read the name, 

“Miss Gillian Bentley.” 

He felt singularly irritated with Mrs. Ransom, and in 
his excitement all fear of offending left him 

“ I have an engagement in an hour,” he said, “ and 
must soon go.” 

“ You appear to find a great deal of leisure time. I 
think your employers must be very kind to you.” 
i Hurst’s lip curled with a sneer. Mrs. Ransom’s remark 
! had evidently called up a new train of thought, but he 
i said only, 

“ Business men are not given generally to such weak- 
ness. I have nothing to complain of, except the smallness 
I of my means.” 

!! “ Certainly, Michael, you have had no lack of money 

during the past year ; I was quite startled yesterday at 
I recalling the amount of your expenditures.” 

! “ You do not expect a young inan to live like a hermit, 

I I suppose,” Hurst said, impatiently. 

“ Perhaps not ; but I expect him to be just to himself 
I and to those who feel an interest in him.” 

“I know of no one who has any interest in me.” 


“You are angry, Michael, -and therefore I excuse your 
injustice.” 

“ I am not angry, Mrs. Ransom, but I do not choose to 
be treated like a child — to have every wish thwarted — to 
be told that I have no right to enjoy life like others of my 
age.” 

“Yo u have no right to be drawn into extravagances, 
the demands of which it is out of your power t o me et ; 
no man has a right to do that.” 

“You have told me all this, madam, many times 

before.” 

“ Do not fear, Michael, that I shall repeat it. I have 
tried to be a good friend to you ; I have had an interest 
in you for which you should at least be grateful, and surely 
when I see you • leading a life that I know to be wrong I 
have a right to expostulate.” 

“ I will allow no one to play the tyrant over me : my 
actions shall be unquestioned.” 

A withering retort trembled on Mrs. Ransom’s lips, but 
she checked the impulse : she could not find it in her heart 
to reproach any one with her bounty, and she knew well 
that Hurst’s only hope was in her. 

“ That is childish,” she said, after a moment’s pause ; 

“ a few years since such language could be tolerated, but 
' you have grown too old now for it to be excusable. ” ^ 

Hurst struggled for self-command. At that moment 
he fairly hated the woman who had been his benefactress.'v 
He had that weak, false pride which made him rebel’ 
against receiving a favor, although he never hesitated to 
accept it — ^nay, even to claim it as his right. 

“ Tell me what brought you here this morning, 
Michael?” Mrs. Ransom said, more kindly; “you came 
on business : what was its nature ?” i 


UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 129 

*‘I want money,” he said, sullenly, “and I must have 
it from some source.” 

“ More money ? Have you forgotten how few weeks 
have elapsed since your debts were paid, and a large 
amount beyond placed in your hands ?” 

“ Remind me of all I owe you I” he exclaimed, with 
reckless bitterness ; “ make me feel wholly base and de- 
graded : I am at your mercy. ” 

“ Indeed I did not mean that ; were you my own son I 
should say to you what I am now saying. ” 

“ Can you procure me the money I need ?” he asked, 
bluntly. 

“ I shall give you none at present. If you have wasted 
the sum I put in your hands, not a month since, on condi- 
tion that you would conduct yourself very differently, I 
cannot help it — I am powerless to aid you at present.” 

“ That means you will not I” he cried angrily. “ This 
is your boasted kindness j this is a proof of the interest 
you profess for me.” 

“You are rapidly wearing out all such feelings, 
Michael. Have a care I You heed no opposition, will 
listen to no counsel. Before long I shall cease to offer 
any ; but when that time comes I shall have lost all 
interest in you.” 

“Let it come,” he replied, defiantly, lifting his head 
and looking boldly in her face, while his eyes grew black 
and inflamed with anger. “ Let it come ! I want to feel 
that I am entirely alone in the world — ^no resource — no 
friend. Go on, Mrs. Ransom.” 

“ Oh, boy, boy, how you wrong yourself and me I 
Have I deserved this ?” 

“Mrs. Ransom, I have no time to trifle. I must have 
money. My honor depends on that.” 

8 


130 


UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 


“You have been gambling again 1 No, Michael, I will 
not aid you. Six months ago I told you that I would 
never pay another gaming debt, and I will not.” 

“ Then let me go., I must find it elsewhere I” 

“ Stop ! Michael, you shall not leave my house in a 
mood like that ! You must listen to me — I have a right 
^to demand it.” 

“What right, madam ? I admit no right that any one 
has over me.” 

“I could reply very bitterly, young man; it is not for 
your sake that I refrain ! Still I have a right — my 
affection for you has given it to me ; no parent ever 
watched over a son more faithfully than I have cared for 
you.” 

“ Who were my parents ?” he asked, abruptly ; “ where 
are they ? why have I been left all my life to the mercy 
of strangers?” 

Mrs. Ransom made no answer. In her excitement she 
had risen from her seat, and was standing directly before 
him. A strange pallor, which in moments of intense 
feeling troubled her face, swept over it then ; her fine 
gray eyes, not beautiful at ordinary times, grew bright 
and dark, while her lips parted in a vain attempt to 
speak. Hurst was startled by her appearance ; even > 
through his reckless anger he saw that some subtle chord ; 
in her soul had been swept, and that her whole being i' 
vibrated to th£ rude touch. 

“Mrs. Ransom !” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, yes,” she repeated, like one who has heard a 
voice from afar, and only sighs out a faint response from a ' 

vain effort to send an answer in return ; “ I hear you go j. 

on.” 4j 

“ My parents,” he said, who were they ?” j|| 


UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 131 

Mrs. Ransom shivered down into her seat — ^that is the 
only word which could express the movement — she seemed 
literally like one struck by a mortal chill that had slowly 
penetrated to her heart, closing its pulses in an ‘icy grasp. 

“Are they alive?” he questioned. “Why have you 
never spoken of them ? Why am I left in the world friend- 
less, an outcast ? If I died to-morrow there would be no 
living soul to shed a tear over my grave. I have lived 
unloved and alone ; I shall die unregretted and forgotten.” 

The wily man knew well the nature with which he had 
to deal ; he knew how every fibre of her being responded to 
the least call for sympathy : yet it was not wholly art 
which caused his agitation ; he was impulsive and excit- 
able-like all iiiitigix.j,tive persons, and the question which 
he so eagerlv uto^/Ounded had often troubled his passionate, 
soul. He felt no tender regret for those unknown parents, 
but the doubt and implied disgrace, which hung over him, 
had preyed for years upon his proud spirit ; and perhaps 
• a portion of his reckless conduct was to be attributed to 
the bitter feeling toward the whole world which had 
sprung from that terrible suspicion. 

“Answer me, Mrs. Ransom. Do not torture me by 
this silence. Is my father living? Where is he? What 
is his name ?” 

Mrs. Ransom drew her hand slowly across her eyes, 
and again that agonized shudder passed over her frame, 
i “ Your father is dead !” she gasped, “ dead I” 

“ And my mother — is she living ? Has she no kindly 
remembrance of the child upon whose unconscious lips she 
pressed a first tender kiss ? Will she allow him to go 
through life without haying otice known a mother’s fond- 
ness ? Was she not human ? Had she no feeling in 
common with the rest of her sex V 


4 ’ 

132 UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 

“Hush ! Michael, hush I” pleaded Mrs. Ransom, in atone 
of deep anguish ; “ do not torture yourself and me by these 
wifd questions.” 

“ I have a right to ask them, lady ; I will no longer be 
surrounded by this impenetrable mystery. Answer me, I 
beg.” 

“ Of what avail ? Why rouse memories of the past, 
Michael ? You are raking the ashes from off a tomb. 
For your own sake leave the dead to rest in peace.” 

“ Dead I Are they both dead ?” 

“ Dead to you ! demand no more I Learn to live in the 
present — forget these haunting doubts which can never be 
gratified. I warn you, Michael Hurst, that you are only 
preparing for yourself misery in the future, by this reck- 
less determination to penetrate mysteries in which you 
have no share.” 

“No share, madam ? Is it nothing that I have no 
family — no relatives? Must I sit quietly. down in this 
disgraceful ignorance, and be patient beneath the ignominy 
which the sins of others have forced upon me ?” 

“Peace, young man I” exclaimed Mrs. Ransom, in a 
hoarse voice. “ Do not dare to insult the memory of your 
parents I” 

“ What have they done for me that I should respect it ? 

I owe them neither gratitude nor affection, and I will give 
none ! Were I standing by my father’s grave I would 
say the same I There must have been guilt somewhere, 
and I am left to suffer the consequences of wrongs in which 
I had no part.” 

“Yes, Michael, there was wrong, deep wrong; but it 
was not meant — before heaven I assert that !” 

“ At least I am forced to endure the consequences of ^ 
that sin— — ” 


UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 


133 


Who mentioned sin?” broke in Mrs. Ransom, with 
passionate excitement, strangely at variance with her usual 
calm demeanor. 

“ Is not wrong sin ?” cried Hurst, angrily ; “is not error 
sin ?” 

“ Ho, no, a thousand times no I Stop, boy : you have 
reached a limit beyond which you shall not pass.” 

“ Who shall prevent me ? I fear nothing ! Perhaps I 
am bold and unscru^nlous ; but with whom rests the 
fault ? — not with me— I refuse to accept it.” 

Mrs. Ransom ro§e from her seat and paced slowly up 
and down, her hands locked together, and her eyes cast 
upon the floor, striving hard to regain her self-command. 
Suddenly she paused before the picture which hung above 
the mantle, and raised her eyes to the face that beamed so 
benignantly down upon her. She extended her arms in 
supplication, her lips moved in inaudible prayer. At 
length the anguish died out of her face — her eyes cleared 
— her lips softened into a faint smile that wandered over 
her features like a waning sunbeam. She turned back 
to the table and sat down, once more calm and self- 
possessed. 

“We have wandered from our subject, Michael ; let us 
return to your affairs. Tell me how it happens that you 
are again in difficulty — I wish to know all.” 

“I do not see why I should account to any human 
being for my actions.” 

“ Then why have you come to me for counsel ?” 

“ Because you have told me that you were my friend 
— because you have taught me to consider you as one to 
whom I could come with every trouble, every pain.” 

“ Then at least do not insult me !” 

“ It is I who am insulted by your doubts and suspi- 


134 : UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 

cions,” he replied, his passion again mastering his pru- 
dence. 

“ You certainly give me every reason for them by your 
reckless conduct. Stop, Michael I” she continued, in a 
warning voice, as he was about to answer more insolently 
than before. “ I will not suffer you again to address me 
in such language. Remember, if I rebuke you, it is be- 
cause these outbursts of anger on the slightest occasion, 
injure you more deeply than any effect your words can 
have upon my feelings. ” 

I will leave you, madam, if my presence is so distaste- 
ful to you.” 

“Do not go away with such feelings, Michael ; I have 
faith enough in your goodness of heart to believe that you 
would repent having left me thus.” 

“ It is useless for me to remain here — ^you have lost all 
interest in me.” 

“ I have not lost it, Michael, but I confess that your 
conduct is rapidly wearing away my forbearance. I have 
borne much from you for reasons of which you knew 
nothing ; but even that desire to perform faithfully a duty 
imposed on me long years since will not induce me to 
compromise my own dignity and self-respect.” 

“ Mine are not to be considered ; I am to submit to dis- 
grace, and bear it with calmness — I tell you I will not do 
it I I must have a certain sum of money before night, 
and by some means have it I will.” 

“ It is out of my power to assist you to-day, even if I 
were so inclined ; your needs cannot be so urgent that a 
few days consideration will be more than a trifling incon- • 
venience.” 

“ Surely I must be the best judge of that ! Have the i 
money to-day I will.” | 


UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 135 

Then you must seek assistance elsewhere, for I have 
none to give.’^ 

Good-morning, madam I” he exclaimed, rising and 
hastening toward the door. He paused, with his hand 
upon the knob, thinlang that she would call him back, as 
she had often done when he left her in moments of anger; 
but the lady made no sign. She was leaning back in her 
chair with a sort of stony composure, which at times came 
over her, and did not even raise her eyes. 

Hurst muttered an oath and dashed out of the room, 
closing the door violently behind him. When he had 
gained the street, he drew from his vest the card which 
he had secreted, and looked again at the name. 

“Gillian Bentley,” he said, almost aloud. “Yes, yes, 
I know the name ; I see my way clearer now — it is a plot 
worthy of Machiavelli ! Many thanks for that little scene 
at the gambling-house last night ; the money was well 
lost which was the means of making that discovery.” 

He sauntered carelessly down the street, greeting any 
chance acquaintance with a pleasant smile or word, seem- 
ingly unoccupied beyond the idle thoughts of the moment, 
so frank and happy-looking that it appeared impossible 
it could be the same face which an hour before had been 
dark with evil passions. 

Mrs. Ransom remained sitting where Hurst had left 
her. What a world of unquiet memories surged over her 
face during that season of self-communion I One might 
have half understood her whole life by looking at her then ; 
she, usually so calm and gentle, full of tender sympathies 
for others, searching the bright side of life and turning 
resolutely away from the gloom, was now wan and spent 
beneath the harrowing reflections which started up before 


336 SANCTIMONIOUS RESPECTABILITY. 


her like mournful shapes, forcing themselves out of the 
mist of the past. 

Once she raised her eyes to the portrait, murmuring — 

“ This is hard, hard to bear — give me strength, for I 
am without power and without hope.” 

So the day wore on in Julia Ransom’s solitude, and 
amid all the friends that her genius had raised up for her, 
there was not one with power to comfort her during that 
sad reverie ; and she, whose beautiful creations had brought 
so much happiness to others, was unable to find in her 
own grand soul a single gleam of consolation. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

SANCTIMONIOUS RESPECTABILITY. 

The room seemed to have been fitted up as a library, 
for the walls were filled with book-cases and the tables we^e 
covered with richly-bound volumes and the newest pam- * 
phlets. Still it was evidently the common working-room 
of a business man ; for near one of the windows was a 
long writing-table surmounted by a cabinet, filled with 
large packages of papers and deeds. 

Seated by the table was a tall, thin man, in whose 
features were those lines and furrows which long years of 
constant occupation will bring upon the face, with a serene 
moral composure which would have deceived even a keen- 
eyed man of the world. 

But now in that solitude the calmness which a long life 
of dissimulation had given the countenance was gone, and . 


SANCTIMONIOUS RESPEGTABILITy 137 

the undercurrent of passion showed through like a turbid 
bottom seen beneath smooth waters. 

That man was Nathan Lawrence, a leading partner in 
the house where Michael Hurst found employment, ^nd 
the person whom the y^ng man had so unexpectedly 
seen at the gambling-hall upon the previous night. 

He was sifting with pa4)er before him and a pen in his 
hand, but he had not yet written a line, although it was 
full an hour since he had taken his seat there. 

The events of the past evening had evidently left an 
impression upon, him, which he could not readily shake 
off, for his los^s had been large, even for one of his great 
wealth, and tie might well pause to reflect upon the con- 
sequences of many nights of misfortune like that. 

In the eyes of the world, Nathan Lawrence possessed 
the reputation of being a moral man — not religious, per- 
haps, in the strict sense of the word, but perfectly upright 
and conscientious. He was to be seen every Sunday in his 
seat in church, uttering the responses with the utmost 
fervor, and was always foremost in every public charity 
or philanthropic act which was sounded abroad. In 
short, he was a man who possessed the esteem of all who 
knew him ; and when once or twice strange reports had 
gone abroad concernlhg him, the source of which no one 
could explain, they had been indignantly refuted by his 
large circle of acquaintance, and for a' time he had risen 
almost to the dignity of a martyr from that attempted 
persecution. 

In the business world no man’s credit stood higher. 
He was the head of one of the most influential firms in the 
country, and his slightest word was considered equal to 
the bond of any common man. 

This was the man whom young Hurst had discovered 


138 . SANCTIMONIOUS RESPECTABILITY. 

at the gambling-house. Had he known that fact^; with 
the desperate condition and daring character of the youth, 

^1 * 

Mr. Lawrence would scarcely have sat at that table with 
so much composure, dwelling only upon the sums which 
he had lost, for the reputation so falsely gained was 
dearer far to him than wealth or life itself. 

While Mr. Lawrence sat gloomily absorbed in his 
library, a low knock sounded at the door, and a do- 
mestic entered the room, and paused before him with 
grave respect. 

“ What is it^ Peters ?” Mr. Lawrence asked, after a 
second’s silence^ laying down his pen, and ^seeming to 
rouse himself from some important calculation. 

“ There is a gentleman below who wishes to speak with 
you, sir.” ^ 

“ Did he give his name, Peters ?’* 

“ Mr. Hurst, sir.” 

“ Hurst ? What can he want ? Did you tell him that 
I was occupied ?” 

“ Yes, sir ; but he said that he had just come from the 
counting-house, and wished to see you on some business 
of importance.” 

“ Show him up, Peters, and remember I am at home to 
no one else.” 

The servant left the room, and Mr. Lawrence again 
took up his pen, but his hand shook, and he could not 
frame a letter, although his face looked cold and stern as 
before. The past night had left him strangely nervous ; 
and simple as was the- fact of his clerk calling upon him, 
he was startled by the -sound of his name. 

In a moment the servant again opened the door, and 
young Hurst entered with his usual air of careless com- 
posure. 


SANCTIMONIOUS RESPECTABILITY. 139 

Mr. Lawrence turned slowly round with his most digni- 
fied manner, and surveyed his clerk from head to foot. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Hurst,” he said, with haughty 
blandness ; my servant said that you desired particu- 
larly to see me. Business from the office, I suppose ?” 

Hurst returned his glance without faltering, and re- 
plied with the familiar ease of an equal : 

Partially so, Mr. Lawrence, partially so.” 

The rich man looked at him in astonishment. It was 
the first time that one of his clerks had ever ventured to 
address him, save with profound respect, and he could 
not comprehend the singular assurance of this young 
man. 

“ I am very much occupied this morning,” he said, with 
dignity ; “let me hear your message at once.” 

“ I have none, sir,” replied Hurst, with the same un- 
changing assurance. “ I always employ my servant in 
any thing of that Sort.’^ 

“Mr. Hurst 1” exclaimed the man of respectability, 
“ what is the meaning of such language ? and why have 
you intruded upon me this morning ?” 

“Ah, that is the bore of business ; one never has a mo- 
ment for himself or friends.” 

“ Sir, I am not in the habit of classing my hired clerks 
among my friends exactly. If you have any business, 
state it at once : if not, I must request you to with- 
draw.” 

“ I met with a little misfortune last night, my dear sir,” 
said Hurst, coolly seating hims6lf near the merchant, and 
leaning his arm upon the writihg-table. “ I have come to 
you for counsel, not only as the head of the firm, but as a 
man of the world.” 

“Really, sir, this is a strange proceeding. I cannot 


140 SANCTIMONIOUS RESPECTABILITY. 

imagine any thing in which my advice can be of value to 
you ; I believe you receive your salary regularly — beyond 
that I have nothing to do with your affairs. ” 

Last night,” continued Hurst, as quietly as if he were 
a millionaire, and speaking of some insignificant loss, “ I 
had the ill-luck to lose a thousand dollars at cards ” 

“ Enough, sir,” interrupted Mr. Lawrence; “ I will not 
tolerate a gambler in my establishment for an hour — ^you 
are discharged.” 

“ The most di/agreeable thing in the whole affair,” pur- 
sued Hurst, calmly, as if the other had not spoken, “is 
that the money was not mine.” 

“ You have not dared ” 

“ Yes ; it belonged to the firm. It was very careless 
on my part, but, after all, the sum is so trifling !” . 

“ I will hear nothing farther ; the law will deal with 
you. I am a just man — I thank heaven that I can look 
back on my life without being forced to blush for a single 
act — but I never falter where my duty is concerned.” 

“I knew, of course, that we could arrange the little 
matter at once, and so I tore myself away from a very 
charming woman in order to call upon you.” 

“A gambler and a' swindler I Young man, what can 
your associations have been to leave you at this age so 
utterly depraved ? H^ you come to me in a spirit of 
repentance, my feelings would all have been in your favor, 
but you enter my house with insolent bravado, and ac- 
knowledge your theft without a blush. Do you know 
what is before you ? Do you know the penalty of an. act 
like this ?” 

Hurst was leaning back in his chair, toying with his. 
watch-chain, and wore upon his lips the same smile of 
conscious superiority. 


SANCTIMONIOUS RESPECTABILITY. 141 

Even if I were inclined to aid you, my partners would 
not permit it. Young man, you are lost I” 

“ The money you mean, my dear sir. Apropos of losses, 
I was sorry to see last night that you were as unfortunate 
as myself.” 

The merchant dropped his pen, and sat gazing into that 
insolently handsome face, pale and aghast. 

“ I hope it was not enough to inconvenience you ! We 
must try fortune again to-night ; she may be more propi- 
tious.” 

Mr. Lawrence struggled for composure. Dissimulation 
came to his aid, and except that the deathly pallor did not 
leave his face, he looked calm. 

“You must be mad, young man ; I can account for 
your conduct in no other way.” 

Hurst smiled again. He knew well the man with 
whom he had to deal ; that death itself would be prefer- 
able, in his eyes, to the loss of one atom of the respecta- 
bility which he had made his bulwark. The youth felt 
his advantage, and knew that when the man was convinced 
that he had learned all, he would cringe for mercy like the 
poltroon he was. 

“ Did you stop for supper ?” he asked. “ I hurried 
away, for I had an engagement of importance.” 

“ Leave this room !” exclaimed Mr. Lawrence ; “ I will 
not be insulted under my own roof.” 

“ My dear sir, how you misunderstand me ! These 
little annoyances will occur to all the votaries of tlje green 
table : I have no hesitation in alluding to them.” 

Once more the man endeavored to intimidate him, 
though his voice shook as he said, 

“ If you remain here, you will be arrested. I advise 
you to leave the city, or remember the consequences.” 


142 SANCTIMONIOUS KESPECTABILITY. 

. “ Nonsense 1” returned Hurst, contemptuously. “ You 
forget we are both men of the world, not gray-bearded 
Puritans. We must assist each other, Mr. Lawrence ; 
these are but trifles.” 

He laid his hand upon the merchant’s arm and looked 
full in his face, smiling still, but with a deadly gleam in 
his eyes, which seemed to fascinate the other like the 
glance of a serpent. An ashen gray settled over his 
features ; he trembled from head to foot, as if the young 
man had dealt him a heavy blow. 

“ You know — you saw I” he gasped. “ Good God, my 
reputation I” 

“ My dear Mr. Lawrence,” said Hurst, laughing gayly. 
“ I am sure last night must have shaken your nerves — let 
us change the subject.” 

“ Mr. Hurst, I hope you will forgive my rudeness — I 
was very much hurried. Your affair is extremely un- 
pleasant, but I will endeavor to conceal the loss from my 
partners, and will help you away. What say you to New 
Orleans ? — charming place.” 

All this was uttered in breathless haste, rendered still 
more apparent from the other’s composure. 

“ Thanks, but I have no desire to leave New York — 
quite impossible to exist elsewhere.” 

“ You cannot remain here 1 I am very willing to help 
you ; I have always felt an interest in you ; I assure you 
money will be no object, and I am certain that my 
secret ” 

“ My dear Mr. Lawrence, how little you know me ! I 
have completely forgotten the events of last night, or 
shall do so the moment we have replaced that little check 
— we will not refer to it again. I am glad to have met 
you this morning— in the confusion of business men have 


SANCTIMONIOUS RESPECTABILITY. 143 

no time to become acquainted. I hope I shall have the 
pleasure of seeing you thus again ?” • 

“ Nothing would gratify me more,” returned the mer- 
chant, with trembling lips. “ Mrs. Lawrence receives 
every Saturday — I shall be happy to present you.” 

“And I to avail myself of the invitation. You know 
Mrs. Ransom ?” 

“ The authoress ? yes, very delightful woman.” 

“A most intimate friend pf mine; nothing would 
gratify her so much as to know that you considered me 
your friend.” 

“ Delighted to hear that ; she so seldom goes out — 
genius has its peculiarities.” 

The wretched man was so ghastly and white that his 
appearance might have softened his deadliest enemy ; but 
the youth in whose power he found himself knew no 
relenting. He liked to taste his revenge drop by drop, 
and would never cease while there was still a chord in his 
victim’s heart that could be wrung. 

“ By-the-way, Mr. Lawrence, do you know Mr. Bent- 
ley ?” 

“ Well, very well ; an extremely rich man.” 

“ I know that he has a charming daughter,” replied 
Hurst, laughing again. “ I met her at Mrs.. Ransom’s. 
Perhaps you would present me there ?” 

The merchant paused for a momput, writhing under 
that insolent assumption of power ; but Hurst’s eyes 
were still fixed upon him, and he could only falter out, 

“With pleasure, of course.” 

“ Indeed I must say good-morning,” Hurst said, rising^ 
“ On Saturday you say Mrs. Lawrence receives ?” 

“ But this thing — you understand I” exclaimed Law- 


144 SANCTIMONIOUS RESPECTABILITY. 


rence, catching him by the arm. Tell me that my 
secret is safe — <noney — any thing — name your terms.” 

‘‘Do not insult me,” returned Hurst, coolly. “Between 
equals such offers are not endurable.” 

“ Excuse me — I At least the check shall be sent 

down.” 

“ Of course, of course I” 

“ May I mention one fact ?” 

“ I shall listen with ples^sure.” 

“ I shall be delighted to receive you at my house ; but 
it is quite possible that you might prefer to give up your 
situation — travel in Europe. We have long thought of 
sending an agent there. I shall always be willing to 
assist you in any way. 

“ I am infinitely obliged. If I decide to leave your 
establishment or the country, I will come and talk the 
matter over with you. Good-morning, Mr. Lawrence ! 
On Saturday ? Till then, au revoir. ” 

He passed out of the room with the same careless ease 
and went down-stairs. 

The merchant fell back in his chair completely ex- 
hausted by the excitement of the last hour. He looked 
like a man just recovering from a terrible illness. When 
he strove to rise from his seat he fell back, covering his 
face with his hands, and murmuring broken words of 
despair. 

Hurst left the house and returned to his home. His 
face was lit up with fierce exultation, and his^yes fairly 
blazed with light. 

“ This is the beginning,” he muttered, “ and it promises 
well ! The fair Gillian is almost reached — patience, 
patience, the end is not far off.” 


CHAPTER XYII. 

THAT STRANGE MAN IN THE STREET. 

Mr. Bentley had established himself permanently in 
town. His house stood upon a corner of an airy cross 
street and one of our principal avenues. The dwelling 
was of stone, broad, high and spacious, with grounds at- 
tached that gave it a dignity almost palatial ; for the noble 
structure had been erected when some considerable space 
was possible to a private dwelling, and Mr. Bentley was 
rich enough to throw any number of vacant lots into a 
garden without fear of ruin. 

The fa9ade of this building was enriched with some 
exquisite sculpture, though the general effect was chastely 
simple. The broad, crescent-shaped steps swept up to the 
heavy door of carved walnut-wood with a grand disre- 
gard of space that was imposing in itself. 

When that massive door was open, you saw through 
plates of limpid crystal, draped with a frost-work of lace, 
a broad, deep, entrance hall, paved with tesselated marble, 
and caught a glimpse of marble busts, bronze statues, and 
rare vases that reminded you at once of an Italian palace. 
This resemblance was carried out by grounds on 'which 
some of those fine old trees under which the Indians once 
built their wigwams, were still rooted. Huge elms, with 
their branches sweeping earthward ; maples, whose blos- 
soms blushed to the early spring, and whose leaves grew 
9 145 


146 STRANGE MAN IN THE STREET, 

golden or crimson when kissed by the autumn frosts, shel- 
tered the grass as they had half a century before. 

These primeval trees threw their shadows over a little 
paradise of flowers, and a stretch of the richest grass that 
the sun ever shone upon. Laburnums and lilacs grouped 
together, mingled the violet and gold of their blossoms. 
Wisterias fell in heavy luxuriance around the bay win- 
dow and the back porticoes, garlanding them with great 
masses of azure. The turf was broken up with beds of 
glowing flowers; and the very stables, massive stone 
buildings as they were, took an aspect of picturesque 
beauty from the heavy trumpet flower, and Virginia 
creepers which draped them. 

This house, half palace, half villa, had lately become 
the residence of Mr. Bentley; and Gillian, the bright, 
beautiful Gillian, was its mistress. It is true Aunt Hetty 
had come down from the country, for a brief time, as a 
sort of companion to the heiress; but so far as social life 
was concerned, she proved as helpless as a human being 
could well be. She was so timid, so nervously sensitive 
under the eye of a stranger, that it was painful to meet 
her out of the immediate domestic circle. 

Mr. Bentley, always thoughtful for those he loved, had 
adorned his residence with an especial regard to his daugh- 
ter’s tastes ; and every feature that could remind her of 
the bright land of song which had become almost native 
to her had been harmoniously blended with our superior 
home comforts for her especial gratification. All this was 
necessary to Gillian. She was a creature so used to the 
pure and beautiful, that mere comfort to her would have 
been poverty. So she took possession of the Eden her 
father had created, and graced it like a bird of paradise. 
The music of her harp rang from hall to hall ; her laughter 


STRANGE MAN IN THE STREET. 147 


sounded merrily among the flowers ; and her sweet, clear 
voice bespoke the wealth of pure happiness with which 
she entered the great world, ready and eager to bear her 
part therein. 

Gillian stood by a front window looking into the street. 
All at once she broke out eagerly, and called to her aunt — 

“Aunt Hetty, dear Aunt Hetty, do come here and look 
at this man. I’m sure he’s the person I met when I made 
a call on a lady last week. He has passed up and down 
two or three times, and looks so earnestly at this window. 
Every day, just at this time, he has taken this same 
promenade. Who can it be ?” 

Aunt Hetty came slowly toward the window and looked 
out. Something between a sigh and an exclamation 
broke from her lips, and she retreated into the room pale 
and agitated. 

“ Who is it, aunt ? Do you know him ?” 

No — no. I have seen that face before — that very 
face — perhaps he knows — perhaps it is me that he is in 
search of.” 

Gillian laughed merrily. The idea that a handsome 
young gentleman like that had been drawn beneath her 
window in hopes of seeing little Aunt Hetty, struck her 
as comical in the extreme. 

Aunt Hetty colored to the temples beneath this sweet 
laugh, and attempted to creep from the room ; but Gillian 
ran after her, threw both arms around her waist, and 
dancing backward toward the window, dragged the shrink- 
ing woman with her.' 

“ There, you dear, blessed little flirt — ^you precious, dar- 
j ling old aunt— just let him see your face, while I hide be- 
j hind the curtain which has always kept me from his sight. 

|l Now see if he does not take a guitar from under that 


148 STRANGE MAN IN THE STREET. 

Spanish cloak — I wonder what he wears it for this bright 
day ? — and strike up a serenade.” 

Thus gayly dragging her aunt forward, and keeping, as 
she thought, her own face concealed, Gillian darted behind 
the curtains, leaving Aunt Hetty standing before the plate- 
glass, which, clear as crystal, revealed her distinctly to 
the young person, who still lingered on the opposite 
pavement. 

The young man cast a long gaze into the window, flung 
a fold of the Spanish cloak across his shoulder, and de- 
liberately crossed the street. 

‘‘ Why, aunt — Aunt Hetty I I say, he is coming over 
— he is mounting the steps. What can it mean ? Surely, 
surely he did not discover me peeping through the cur- 
tains ? Hark, the bell rings, Aunt Hetty. What can we 
do ? I had no idea he really was drawn here by your 
face. What will you say to him ?” 

“ Oh ! Gillian,” almost sobbed Aunt Hetty, shrinking 
back into the room, “ how could you be so cruel ?” 

She was pale as snow, and seemed almost as cold, for 
her very lips trembled in the chill of her feelings. 

“Oh, aunt, I did not mean it. Who would have 
thought this impudence possible ? I only wish father 
were here to chastise the adventurer as he deserves,” 
cried Gillian, all in a glow of indignation. 

“ Your father chastise him ? Ho — no, girl, it has not 
come to that. Your mother, had she been living, might 
rebuke him, but no one else ; most of all, your father.” 

The little woman grew almost handsome as she spoke. 
Her lips turned red, and her cheeks burned. She looked 
spirited and haughty almost as Gillian herself. 

Gillian gazed upon her with open lip and quick astonish- 
ment in her eyes. 


STRANGE MAN IN THE STREET. 149 


Why, aunt I” 

“ Hush, the servant !” 

The footman entered. “ A gentleman was below who 
wished to speak with the ladies.” 

Before Hetty could speak, Gillian answered him. 

“ Tell the young gentleman that the ladies of this house 
never receive strangers in the absence of its master.” 

Hetty seized her arm with both those little, shivering 
hands. 

“ Not that message — not that — say we are not at home 
— that some other time — only reflect, he may be a gentle- 
tleman, and have real business.” 

“ Not with you or with me,” answered Gillian, kindling 
more and more brightly in her pride. He asked for the 
ladies; I alone am responsible for the answer.” 

Then turning to the footman, she repeated still more 
haughtily : 

“ Miss Bentley’s compliments to the strange gentleman 
who forgets to send up his name, and say that she cannot 
receive him.” 

“ But for me — you understand — please say that I am 
not well — not at all well — but some other time ” 

Aunt Hetty broke off, for her voice quivered out of 
speech, and her poor white face looked the plea for for- 
bearance that she could not utter. 

The servant went out? greatly bewildered. Aunt Hetty 
followed him slowly to the door, and, leaning over the 
threshold, listened keenly with both hands pressed to her 
heart. 

Gillian stood in the midst of the room flushing red to 
the fair temples, amazed and angry. But when Aunt 
Hetty heard the outer door close, and fell into a chair 
wavering to and fro, while faint moans broke through the 


150 STRANGE MAN IN THE STREET. 


two hands locked over her face, this excitement faded 
away, and with that graceful humility which sprung f^om 
a warm heart, she drew close to her aunt and stole an 
arm around her neck. 

But poor, meek. Aunt Hetty rose up like a princess, and 
cast that white arm aside. 

“You have driven him from your door — you a Bentley, 
and her child, have done this thing. May God forgive 
you — may the saint who is in heaven forgive you I I fear 
— I fear I never can.” 

Gillian turned white, and for a moment stood motion- 
less ; but there was something in Aunt Hetty’s air that 
awoke both sympathy and admiration. She would not 
be repulsed. 

“Why, what is this? How can the dismissal of this 
intrusive person affect you so, dear aun^ Surely he 
had no right to hang about the house for d^s, and insult 
us by this attempt to force his way at last. In what 
have I done wrong, Aunt Hetty ?” 

The poor lady looked up and tried to smile, but it was 
a woful attempt, and only ended in a quiver of the lips. 

“ He should not have been driven forth like a dog for 
your mother’s sake — for ” 

“Why, Aunt Hetty, are you crazy? What has my 
mother in common with this* person ?” 

“ Your mother, our Sarah ! Nothing, of course ! How 
could she, and in her grave so many years ? How came 
your mother to be mentioned ? I did not do it I” 

“ I do not know — it was I perhaps who named her,” 
said Gillian, subdued at once almost to tears by this men- 
tion of her mother. “ But what has she in common with 
this stranger ? Who is he, aunt ? Tell me, and then let 


STRANGE MAN IN THE STREET. 161 

me go away and cry alone : this mention of my mother, 
and both of us in a passion, wounds me to the heart.” 

Aunt Hetty arose and put her away with a wave of her 
little hand. 

Hot now, Sarah : we will talk of it another time,” she 
said, looking away into the distance. 

Gillian was deeply touched by that look, it was so full 
of yearning tenderness, and the, unconscious application 
of her mother’s name added to the sad impression. 

“Aunt,” she said, quietly, and with tears in her eyes, 

aunt, your mind is away — you are thinking of something 
afar off.” 

“Yes,” said the aunt, in a whisper, “far off as heaven 
and earth, Sarah.” 

“ Indeed you are ill, dear aunt !” 

Hetty turned her face a little to avoid the gentle eyes 
that were btnt upon her, and with the motion her look 
fell through the opposite window. The young man was 
standing upon the side- walk as he had first been dis- 
covered. A gleam came over her face, and without a 
word she left the room. 

Gillian was bewildered by the ^ene that had just 
passed, and sat down to recover her thoughts ; but her 
eyes were fixed on the window, and her hearing grew 
keen. The outer door closed softly, and after a moment 
she saw Aunt Hetty cross the street without bonnet or 
shawl, and speak to the strange man. A single word, it 
scarcely seemed more, and then, he walked rapidly down 
the block, while Hetty returned to the house. 


CHAPTER XYIIl. 


THE TWO OLD WOMEN. 

In one of those narrow streets that open from the 
vicinity of Chatham Square, stood a small, two-story 
house built of brick, but with wooden steps that de- 
scended on the side-walk, and gable windows looking 
down from the roof. Two old women occupied this 
house ; beside them and a large, gray cat, there was not 
a living creature beneath its roof ; for the old ladies per- 
formed their own household duties, and lived out their 
isolated lives in silent companionship. The elder of the 
two, a little, withered-up creature approaching ninety, 
possessed some means of support beside the house she 
lived in ; and the other was her dependent in all things. 

This dependent old woman had turned seventy, and, 
on account of her comparative youth, was looked upon 
by her associate as a sprightly young thing, whose move- 
ments required especial vigilance, and whose limbs were 
capable of any amount of household exercise. 

It is difficult for two women to be real heart com- 
panions, if cast on the same hearth-stone when the gray 
shadows are creeping over them. While old Mrs. Frost 
felt that she was doing wonders of charity in giving Mrs. 
Nicholson a home, she — poor, old gentlewoman — felt 
this dependence to the core of her weary heart, and took 
on herself the toil of a servant without in the slightest 
152 


THE TWO OLD WOMEN. 153 

degree softening the impressions of benevolence with 
which the elder female solaced her self-love. 

These old women were sitting over their unsocial din- 
ner, composed of a little hashed fish, the section of a 
mince-pie, and a scant portion of green tea, from which 
Mrs. Frost drained off one good, strong cup, and diluted 
the rest with warm water, observing, as she lifted the lid 
of the tea-pot for this purpose, that, for young persons 
like Mrs. Nicholson, strong tea was very unwholesome 
and apt to render them nervous, if not hysterical. This 
speech had been so often repeated that Mrs. Nicholson 
took it as a matter of course, while she meekly invigor- 
ated the weak tea with a little bluish milk, and helped 
herself sparingly to a spoonful of the fish, very much as 
the gray cat would have done had she found a chance to 
steal her portion of food from the table. 

The old women sipped their tea in silence, tasting 
lightly of the fish ; while now and then a kindly murmur 
and a fragment of food went down to the cat, who rubbed 
herself against one old woman’s ankle, then marched off 
to beg of the other with a mute appeal of the eyes. 

“ I wonder,” said old Mrs. Frost, “ what has become 
of Michael Hurst. It is a long time since Jie was here ; 
Jube has grown from a fair-sized kitten since then. The 
boy seems to forget his old friends : or maybe he’s gone 
out of town on business.” 

“ I think not. Yesterday he passed me in the street, 
when I was going to the grocery after those water- 
cresses,” said Mrs. Nicholson, “He didn’t speak, but 
I’m sure it was him.” 

“ Met him on your way to the grocery,” cried Mrs. 
Frost, and her head began to vibrate like a pendulum ; 
“ so near my house, and not call ? Why, Mary Nichol- 


154 THE TWO OLD WOMEN. 

son, this comes of something you have done to offend 
him ; your thoughtless, flighty ways will be the ruin of 
you yet. What have you been saying to the boy ?” 

I haven’t spoken to him in more than two months,” 
said Mrs. Nicholson, coloring through her wrinkles at 
this charge of youthful indiscretion ; “indeed I never do/ 
speak with him — he don’t care to talk with me, I’m sure.” 

“ But then what keeps him away ?” 

“ I don’t know. Wasn’t it then be asked for something, 
that you didn’t want to give him ? I thought so.” 

“ Mrs. Nicholson, you must have been listening. I’m 
astonished.” 

“But I was in the room and could not help it. If 
people will talk before me what can I do ?” 

The old woman of ninety shook her head in a dissatis- 
fied way, and muttered, “ Poor thing I poor, weak thing ! 
She hasn’t got the experience which brings discretion. 
It’s no use scolding her.” 

So, with a philosophic wave of the little, withered 
hand, she proceeded to cut the section of pie in two equal 
parts, measuring each to a fraction with the flat of her 
knife ; then she scraped the fragments of fish together for 
Jube, and, leaning back in her Boston rocking-chair, left 
Mrs. Nicholson to wash the dishes, while she prepared 
herself for a long nap. 

But just as her eyes began to dose, and her little hands 
were falling apart from their clasp on her chest, a knock 
at the street door carried Mrs. Nicholson into the hall. 
She turned the latch, and found upon the door-step the 
very young man whom they had been talking about. 

“ Mr. Hurst, is it you ?” she said, happy to see any 
human being in that unsocial house. “ Step light, 
please ; Mrs. Frost is in her first sleep.” 


THE TWO OLD WOMEN. 


155 


But I came to see Mrs. Frost, aunty, and can^t possi- 
bly wait till she drones herself awake again, so just give 
her a nudge — tell her I’m here, and — ha I you look 
frightened, and shake that poor, little cap dismally. 
Daren’t do it, ha I Well, I’ll rouse her myself.” 

That instant an old, withered head appeared through 
the sitting-room door, shaking like a cluster of dry leaves, 
but with an attempt at welcome, which, though grim 
enough, was all the cordiality that infirm woman could 
muster out of her worn old age. 

“ Michael, is it you ?” 

” Grandmother I Well, you are awake, and glad to 
have me back again a little while, I hope. ” 

“ Glad ?” said the old lady, and a smile displaced the 
wrinkles about her mouth; you’ve been a. long time 
waiting to see if I would be glad or not. But come in, 
Mike. Dear me what a dashing young fellow you’ve 
grown ! Mary Nicholson I Mary Nicholson I just pour 
some boiling water into the tea-pot, and put in an even 
spoonful of Young Hyson. I dare say Michael would 
like a good, old-fashioned cup of tea. We’d just done 
dinner, but that’s of no consequence. Mary Nicholson I 
run around the corner for another pie.” 

Young Michael laughed. 

“No, no, grandmother; I’m not hungry, and never 
drink tea now.” 

“ Never drink tea ? Why, Mike, what has come over 
you ? Never drink tea ?” 

“ Not at this time of day. But never mind, I’ll take 
a cup now, and a piece of pie too, if aunty will bring it 
for me.” 

Mrs. Frost nodded her head half a dozen times, for 
when she once began it was difficult to stop, and Mrs. 


156 THE TWO OLD WOMEN. 

Nicholson went patiently 6ut in search of a pie at the 
next bakery. When she was gone, Hurst took the old 
lady’s hand and kissed it with some show of real affection. 

“ I am glad she is gone,” he said, “ for I want a little 
private talk with you, grandmother.” 

“Grandmother!” muttered the old woman. “Why, 
Mike, you are getting too old for that. I never had a 
child in my life, as Mary Nicholson, the giddy thing, 
says : and to have a tall, handsome young fellow calling 
me grandmother is enough to take away one’s reputation. 
I really thought that was very sensible, very sensible 
indeed, for Mary Nicholson, considering her want of ex- 
perience. Still it does sound pleasant when you call me 
grandmother, so I’ll run the risk.” 

Here the old lady sat down in her rocking-chair, with 
an increased vibration of the head, and a sparkle of 
pleasure in her dim eyes. Hurst knelt down by her side, 
as he had done a thousand' times when a boy, with a glow 
of real affection, which rendered his manner irresistible 
to the lonely soul he addressed. 

“ But grandmother, tell me, and oh ! tell me truly, have 
I no right to claim some relationship to you ? I cannot 
remember when you first took an interest in my life — 
when you first gave me a home. If I am related to you, 
legally or illegally, nearly or remotely, oh 1 tell me now. 
I shall not love you more or less for the knowledge : but 
it is very important that I know all about myself. Grand- 
mother, dear grandmother, tell me every thing I” 

The old lady began to vibrate in her chair — body, head 
and all. She tried to lift her hand in deprecation of 
farther questions, but it fell gently on the young man’s 
shoulder, and a tear trembled into her dim eyes. 

“ Michael, I can tell you nothing, because, of a cer- 


THE TWO OLD WOMEN. 


157 


tainty, I know nothing myself ; what I suspect is not 
evidence, and may mislead.” ) 

But you know how I came under your <jare.” 

“ Yes, so far as that, I can tell you all I know myself.” 

“ Do, oh, do tell me all you know 1” 

That is little — nothing in fact.” 

“ Still, let me have it, dear grandmother.” 

My husband, 'you can just remember him, Michael, 
and know that he was minister of a little Baptist society, 
which was not rich enough in those days to have a meet- 
ing-house to itself, but worshipped in a room around the 
corner, and was built up gradually, by the goodness of 
God and my husband’s labor, into a powerful church. He 
did not live to see it, but his teachings have brought forth 
fruit a thousand fold.” 

“ I know, I know ; you have told me this again and 
again, dear grandmother; but what of myself?” 

The young egotist had no, sympathy with the dear 
memories which made the old lady dwell so lovingly on 
her husband’s good works, and cut them short with this 
burst of selfish impatience. 

She drew back, nervous and bewildered ; then an- 
swered, with touching meekness : 

“ Yes, I dare say that I have told you about him a 
great many times, till you are tired of it; but about 
yourself — well, that, too, was one of his good works, for 
he was not among the servants of God that confine their 
labors to one society, or to a single line of duty. He 
went forth into the highways and the hedges and forced 
sinners to come in. He was so charitable, too, without 
a sin of his own, that I could ever discover ; he had no 
end of patience and forbearance for the sins of others.” 


158 THE TWO OLD WOMEN. 

“Yes, yes ; I know all this !” cried the young man, im- 
patiently ; “ but of myself ?” 

“ Well, this is a part of what I was saying : so be more 
patient, or I will not speak another word 1” cried the old 
lady, with the stubbornness of extreme years. “ To speak 
of you, a poor, helpless orphan baby, is to exalt his good- 
ness. My husband not only cared for the souls of his 
parishioners in the next world, but he helped them for- 
ward in this. The poor were his children.” 

“ Well, and I was one of those poor orphan babies ?” 
cried the youth, impatiently. 

“ You might have been two or three years old when he 
brought you home. Yes, it was just two years after my 
nieces, Sarah and Hetty Hart, come to visit me, and a 
few months after Sarah got married to that rich Mr. 
Bentley.” 

“ Mr. Bentley — did a niece of yours marry a man by 
that name ?” 

“And didn’t you know that ? Why, yes, our Sarah 
married one of the most splendid and wealthy men in 
New York. His cousin, who was killed, used to be here 
a good deal, when the girls stayed with us, and the two 
young fellows often came together. The rich man was 
poor then ; but after his cousin died the property all 
came to him, and he married Sarah.” 

“ And what became of her ? Is she living now ? Has 
she any children ?” 

“ She died years ago, beyond sea, and left a little girl, 
her very picture.” 

“ What was her name ?” 

“A curious name for a girl— Gillian.’ I never knew 
where they picked it up. It has a heathenish sound to 
me.” 


THE TWO OLD WOMEN. 159 

Gillian, ah, and Miss Hetty Hart your niece, Daniel 
Hart and his daughter : are these the connections of Mrs. 
Bentley V' 

“ Yes, that is the family. You were up in Rockland 
once — did they never tell you about the Bentleys ?” 

Never a word.” 

“Well, it was no secret. I wonder Hetty never told 
you about them, for it was considered a great match for 
our Sarah. Hetty was here, I remember, just after Mr. 
Frost brought you home ; and now I remember Sarah 
came too every day till she went beyond seas : they took 
a good deal of interest in you, and cried over you more 
than once. I caught them at it — but then they were 
tender-hearted girls always : the sight of a bird astray 
from its nest would set them a-crying always, especially 
Sarah.” 

“ But this is no intelligence, grand mother—it does not 
inform me who I am, or who my parents were,” cried the 
youth. “ Did your husband never tell you where I came 
from, or to whom I belonged ?” 

“ No, he never did. His good acts were done in secret, 
and though he called me his right hand, I never knew 
what the left hand did, especially in his charities. If the 
sinful gave him their confidence, it was sacred between 
himself and the throne of God. Many a miserable girl 
has he snatched from under the cruel feet of the multitude, 
and saved from deeper sin. Many a child ” 

“Don’t speak of that — do not couple me with such 
Christian charities,” cried the young man, wildly, while 
his face flushed scarlet, and his eyes filled with smoulder- 
ing flame. “ The mother who can leave this shameful 
orphanage on her child deserves to be trodden to the 
earth — crushed out of existence ” 


160 


THE TWO OLD WOMEN. 


He broke off suddenly, and stood still with his hand 
clutched in a firm grip, his features gradually becoming 
pale, and his eyes fixed on the door; for during his 
vehement speech it had opened, and Aunt Hetty Hart 
stood mute and still on the threshold. 

She met that look of inflamed passion with a wild gaze 
and a lip of marble. His impetuosity seemed to terrify her 
into stone : she was so unused to violent feelings, poor 
thing, that their utterance abashed her to death. After 
a little while, she glided into the room and sat down, shiv- 
ering and drawing her mantle tightly as if she were cold. 

“ Oh !” said the young man, with a forced and bitter 
laugh, “ you have just come in time. Miss Hart. I am 
trying to persuade my old grandmother here to tell me 
who I really am ; and she was kindly insinuating that I 
was little less than a pauper child, raked up from the 
gutter where a shameless mother had left me. You cannot 
wonder that intelligence like this sheds something besides 
rose-leaves on my temper, and that I was very near 
cursing myself and those to whom I owe life.” 

Hetty looked at him steadily. Her large, sorrowful 
eyes dilated ; her lips grew cold. 

“Do not curse either your father or your mother, 
Michael. Leave them with God-*-leave them both to the 
great, just God, who allows no sin, open or hidden, to go 
unpunished.” 

The words dropped solemnly and slowly from her lips ; 
but even the touching sadness of that voice failed to in- 
fluence the intemperate youth. 

“ No, it is useless cursing them ; they cannot feel or 
know it,” he said, bitterly ; “ one might as well denounce 
the wind. But you had some knowledge of me when a 
child : Grandmother Frost has just told me so — you and 
your sister, the wife of that rich Mr, Bentley, whose house 


THE TWO OLD WOMEN. 161 

I saw you at a little while back. If you are human, tell 
me something by which I may guess who I am.” 

Aunt Hetty shrunk away from him. 

“ I have no power. I cannot, if I would, give up a 
mother to the curses of her child.” 

^‘And so all ends in this. With every effort to know 
something of my own history, I am thrown back to fight 
with shadows again.” 

The young man flung himself away from Aunt Hetty 
as he spoke, and prepared to go ; but some new thought 
struck him, and he turned back. 

One thing I wish to ask. There is a lady living on 
the Bloomingdale road, who has been a very kind and 
good friend to me for some years. Is she known to any 
of you ? Her name is Ransom, and she is an author of 
high standing.” 

The old ladies looked at each other, pondered a while ; 
then each shook her head — they knew no such woman. 
Aunt Hetty had heard the name, and remembered that 
Gillian Bentley had brought one of Mrs. Ransom’s bo6ks 
into Rockland county; but of the author herself she knew 
nothing. 

The timid woman said this in a frightened way, and 
seemed to shrink into herself when another sharp excla- 
mation broke from the young man. 

“Another mystery,” he said ; “ but I was a fool to in- 
quire about her here,” and with angry clouds on his brow 
he started off, almost knocking the old woman down who 
was coming in with the pie she had been ordered to bring. 

“ I beg your pardon — I am really sorry,” he said, as the 
old creature reeled back against the wall. “I did not 
mean to hurt you ; but that stubborn old thing will tell 
me nothing, and it drives me mad.” 

10 


162 THE TWO OLD WOMEN. 

The old woman, instead of beir^ angry at his careless- 
ness, was grateful for this half apology ; and softly closing 
the door, said to him, in a hurried whisper — 

“ I only wish I could help you out of all this trouble. 
Tell me what it is about.” 

He laughed a low and bitter laugh. 

“ I am a poor orphan in search of my father and mother,” 
he said, “ and no one will tell me where to find them I 
believe Mrs. Frost could help me if she pleased.” 

“ Hid she know any thing ?” 

“Her husband did; but he is dead.” 

The old woman pondered a moment, with a lean finger 
pressed to her lip. 

“ I don’t think she knows any thing about it ; but if she 
does I’ll find it out for you. Come again before long. 
It’s pleasant to have company drop in now and then.” 

“ Find out what I want to know, and I’ll come to see 
you every day of my life,” he whispered, earnestly. “ Miss 
Hart is in the sitting-room : take notice of what they talk 
about after I am gone.” 

“I will — as sure as you live I will, and trust me for 
more than that. It’ll be something to thin^i about, and 
that is a great deal to a woman who does not get a chance 
to speak sometimes for twenty-four hours together.” 

“Well, well,” said the young man, “be my friend, as 
you always have been, and if I ever win good fortune, you 
shall share it. So, now, good-day, aunty ; I hear a move- 
ment as if some one were coming. 

With these words he disappeared, just as the pale face 
of Aunt Hetty looked through the door. 

She saw his shadow as he went, and called out faintly, 
but there was no strength in her feeble voice to summon 
him back or lead him from his desperate course. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE. 

Youth is very sad at times : to it the future appears 
vague and unreal as eternity is to old age. A longing de- 
sire to know what lies beyond the present — a dreamy melan- 
choly — timid fears of what may be, is sure to settle upon 
the young, susceptible mind, like morning fog over a garden 
of roses, making the sunshine more vivid when it comes. 
To the sensitive and most highly endowed this is certain 
to be true ; and for such real happiness seldom exists, save 
in snatches and bright gleams, till imagination becomes a 
power, and then the 'blossom-season of life is gone. 

Gillian Bentley was like an April day, now bright and 
richly happy, now saddened almost to tears. Neither of 
these moods, perhaps, had a definite cause, but they were 
a part of her nature. The shadows which the moonlight 
casts to the earth, the perishing of a rose she had loved, 
a gloomy look from her father — each or any of these 
were enough to cloud her pure forehead, and make her 
step languid for hours together. Yet when she was 
cheerful, nothing could be more charming than the ex- 
uberant flow of her spirits. She was like the mocking- 
bird of Alabama, when it begins to sing among the great 
magnolia blossoms as the dawn flushes over them. 

Indeed Gillian was a splendid creature in all her moods, 
and you always associated her with something rich and 
precious ; the glow of life in her was so bright, that it was 

163 


164 THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE. 

impossible to class her among those who are born for toil 
or common suffering. I cannot describe this girl exactly 
as she appears to me, for her character seemed to vary 
every moment ; and her face — one might as well attempt 
to make the perfume of a flower visible, as convey an 
idea of its beautiful changes. 

It was only in her sad moods that Gillian visited Mrs. 
Ransom. When she had been thoughtful an hour or two 
from any cause, the result was certain to be a visit to her 
friend, for such that singular woman became from the 
first. 

These calls to the Bloomingdale cottage usually took 
place in the morning, when Mrs. Ransom was almost 
sure to be in her library, and equally sure to refuse her- 
self to all other visitors. 

On the day after Hurst had made an unsuccessful effort 
to visit her father’s house, Gillian drove to the Blooming- 
dale road. She had not recognized the face of the young 
man, and the conduct of her aunt gave her some little 
anxious surprise. The old lady had been absent two or 
three hours after his disappearance, and the usual 
nervousness of her demeanor increased painfully on her 
return, until she glided off like a ghost to her own room 
and had not since appeared. 

Gillian felt that she had offended her aunt. She could 
not even conjecture the nature of her fault; but her 
quick sensitiveness was aroused, and she fled to Mrs. 
Ransom for consolation. 

Ruby had been taught to admit Gillian at all hours, 
without question of time or convenience : so the young 
girl passed her with a light step, and entered the library. 
It was empty : the writing-table stood in the centre, 


THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE. 165 

littered with papers, and the easj-chair she knew so well 
stood beside it ; but the lady herself was nowhere visible. 

This was a disappointment. Gillian hesitated a moment, 
and sat down in Mrs. Ransom’s chair with a feeling 
almost of reverence. Her eyes fell upon the bronze ink- 
stand, and instantly her thoughts flew back to Italy and 
the spot where her mother slept beneath a perpetual 
bloom of roses. The chair she occupied commanded a 
fine view of the river. It was spring-time, and early 
morning; the soft green of the trees, rendered brighter 
from the dew that was but partially exhaled, framed Jn 
glimpses of the river which sparkled in the early sunshine 
like veins of diamonds. Along the broken slopes of the 
bank a few old apple trees, heavy with blossoms, drooped 
to the soft, fresh turf ; and, from the crevice of a rock, 
near the water, a young cherry tree, the growth of some 
stray seed, was just shedding its delicate flowers like a 
snow storm over a carpet of wood-moss that crept on to 
its roots ; groups of lilacs and snow-balls broke on the 
wildness of the scene, and, without knowing it, Gillian 
began to smile, the stillness was so beautiful. 

As she sat gazing through the window, Mrs. Ran- 
som came slowly up from the river with a branch of wild 
honeysuckle in her hand. Her morning-dress, of a deli- 
cate blue, brightened the scene as she passed along. The 
ribbons of her pretty morning-cap fluttered in the wind, 
while her animated face and elastic tread gave queenliness 
to her whole appearance. 

The lady was not alone : by her side walked a tall 
man, not very young in appearance, but with a quiet and 
calm stateliness which rendered his presence imposing as 
that of the lady. Sometimes Mrs. Ransom took the gen- 
tleman’s arm, and rested on it a moment, as she conversed. 


166 THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE. 

Then she would stoop to pick a fern leaf, or a violet, 
from the grass, and move on again, with her head bent, as 
if listening to some subject that interested her greatly. 
Thus the two came toward the house, mounted the bal- 
cony to which the bay window opened, and sauntered 
through into the library. . 

Gillian stood up, blushing and confused. She felt like 
an intruder ; and the shy grace which this sensation gave 
to her appearance was in itself a charm. 

Mrs. Ransom started, and almost stepped back, when 
she saw this queenly girl standing there, with a smile on 
her lip, and a flush stealing over her whole face ; but 
she recovered herself at once. 

“My child — my dear Miss Bentley I” she said, with a 
confused attempt at welcome, “you here and waiting. 
Oh I I forgot — Mr. Woodworth, Miss Bentley.” 

Mrs. Ransom sat down, panting for breath. It was her 
habit, when excited, to tear apart any thing that chanced 
to be in her hand. Thus she began to strip the honey- 
suckle branch of its blossoms, and scatter them on the 
carpet, while she watched the two persons she had intro- 
duced as they recognized the courtesy. 

The gentleman was evidently struck by the glow of 
Gillian’s face, and by her subdued graciousness. He 
made some observation about the beauty of the morning, 
and looked about for a seat, while Gillian glided away 
from the easy-chair she had occupied, and drew gently 
up to Mrs. Ransom. 

“You are not angry I Tell me, dear lady, have I in- 
truded ?” she said, bending gently toward her friend. 

Her sweet, deprecating way touched Mrs. Ransom to 
the heart. Her face brightened with one of those grand, 
soul-lit smiles that made it resplendent at times. 


THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE. 167 

“ No, not angry, child ; and you never can intrude — re- 
member that I” she answered, casting the torn branch 
away, as if it were some painful thought which she flung 
off with an effort. ** I was a little jealous that another 
should see you, that is all : so just scatter those roses 
back from your face — ^you have nothing to blush at.’’ 

Mrs. Ransom spoke in a subdued tone, and Gillian 
imitated her as she answered : 

I have been sitting in your chair, dear lady, with the 
old gentleman looking down upon me so earnestly. It 
almost made my heart stand still when I first met his 
glance. It seemed as if he wanted to tell me something. 
Is it the likeness of some one you have loved ?” 

The gentleman had taken up a book, and was glancing 
over its pages, as this low-toned conversation commenced. 
Thus the two ladies were left, in a measure, to themselves. 
Mrs. Ransom’s face changed again, and, with a saddened 
look, she lifted her eyes to the portrait. 

“Yes!” she said^ almost in a whisper, “I loved him, 
heaven only knows how much ! Loved him almost bet- 
ter than myself — than — than — He was a good man, 
Gillian — a rare man. I think that shame, or a knowledge 
of sin in those he loved, would have broken his heart. 
But nothing of this kind ever reached him. He died 
calmly, happily, I think.” 

Her eyes did not fill with tears as she spoke, but a 
flush rose about them, and her voice was low and hoarse. 

“ It is a calm, stern face,” whispered Gillian, drawing 
closer and closer to her friend ; “ I cannot tell why, but 
his look almost brings the tears to my eyes. He is not 
at all like papa, but there is something that reminds me 
of him about the picture.” 

“ Indeed, is your father like that ? But it is not likely 


168 THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE. 


that a resemblance could exist between the two. It is 
because you like the picture.” 

“ Like it ? Yes, but that would not account for this 
feeling. His eyes make me sad.” 

Mrs. Ransom pressed the hand which Gillian had un- 
consciously laid in her clasp, but she did not speak ; for 
that moment Mr. Woodworth closed his book and laid it 
on the table, conscious that the conversation was becom- 
ing oppressive to Mrs. Ransom, but apparently only 
weary of turning over the leaves. 

With a quiet, almost indifferent manner, he began to 
converse about a poem that he had read. Mrs. Ransom 
replied in her usual earnest, frank way. Gillian did not 
speak, but her eyes began to kindle, and her cheeks grew 
red. In her whole life she had never heard a voice like 
that, so deep-toned, so clearly musical. The objection 
that Mrs. Ransom made to some sentiment that escaped 
him brought the fire to his soul. He began to talk earn- 
estly, eloquently — so eloquently that Mrs. Ransom be- 
came interested — her thoughts flashed back to his own — 
her laugh rang out, full and clear. Spite of her age — 
spite of a certain troubled expression that habitually lay 
upon her — she grew brilliant beyond any thing that Gil- 
lian had believed her capable of. 

The conversation was of a kind the young girl had 
never listened to before, running from subject to subject : 
poetry, prose, wild fancies that possessed all the elements 
of poesy without its rhythm, flashed before her. She was 
a being to feel all that was beautiful in the meeting of two 
minds so richly gifted, and her sympathies went with 
them to the full. Hitherto she had almost reverenced 
Mrs. Ransom as an author ; now her whole soul went 


THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE. 169 

forth in homage to her womanliness and the truth of her 
character. 

Woodworth read all that was passing in that fresh, 
young heart, with a glance. The admiration, and even 
homage, he saw there, inspired him with feelings more 
worthy than those of gratified vanity, but he scarcely ad- 
dressed her in words, and he, was entirely free from any 
of those pretty arts with which smaller men attempt to 
ingratiate themselves into favor with a young and beauti- 
ful woman. Indeed he was a man far above the usual 
level of society. 

Perhaps the presence of Mrs. Ransom might have ren- 
dered his conduct, so far as she was concerned, more re- 
served than was usual to him; for he could not but 
remark how vigilantly her eyes followed his glances when- 
ever they wandered toward the bright creature by her side. 
There was something anxious and almost stern in her 
manner, once or twice when she thus intercepted his ad- 
miration, which he could not understand. 

At last Gillian arose to go ; for, from the first, she had 
felt almost like an intruder. Mrs. Ransom did not urge 
her to stay, but arose and walked with her toward the 
door. 

Woodworth smiled. \ He was too thorough a man of 
society to be baffled in this way ; and, seeing some wild 
flowers on the table where Mrs. Ransom had cast them 
down, he took up a few of the violets and handed them to 
Gillian, smiling half-maliciously in Mrs. Ransom’s face, 
as he lifted his head from the profound inclination that 
had accompanied the gift. 

Mrs. Ransom frowned, but instantly a smile crossed 
her lip at being thus outgeneraled ; for she was a woman 


170 THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE. 


to forgive, nay, admire the quickness of wit that over- 
mastered her own, even when it baffled her wishes. 

As for Gillian, she blushed like a 'sudden dawn, and, 
with unconscious grace, lifted the violets to her lips, cast- 
ing a purple shadow over the smiles that hovered there. 
In her whole life she had never received a gift which 
stirred her heart so pleasantly. She forgot Aunt Hetty — 
the young man of the sidewalk — every thing, in the happy 
bewilderment that fell upon her. 

Mrs. Ransom went forth with her to the outer door, 
kissed her with sweet tenderness of manner, and stood, 
with the young man at her side, while the carriage rolled 
away. As it swept round a curve of the road, they caught 
a last glimpse of her, leaning back in the carriage and 
holding the violets to her lips — the violets over which a 
soft, low sigh passed — giving and taking perfume as the 
horses swept her away from the spot that had been to her 
the paradise of an hour. 

“And who is she ?” inquired Woodworth, as his eyes 
met those of Mrs. Ransom, which were all at once clouded 
with sadness. 

“ She is — she is an angel — a good, bright angel, that 
keeps me from wishing to die,” said Mrs. Ransom ; and 
her sad eyes swam in tears. 

“ She is a happy one to excite such emotions in a heart 
like yours,” answered the young man ; and, with the tact 
born of perfect refinement, he left the lady to her solitude. 


CHAPTER XX. 


AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD IN ROCKLAND COUNTY. 

The apple trees were in blossom on the. old Rockland 
farm — fragrant, bright and rich in beauty as they had 
given their breath to the air on that spring morning 
when Daniel Hart met his sister on her way to the post- 
office, when that as yet unexplained letter was sent to 
the man who had now been in his grave so many years. 
There was no change in the landscape, except that more 
perfect cultivation had enriched the basin of Rockland* 
county, thinning the wilderness of its trees and leaving 
pleasant homesteads in their places. 

Daniel was walking along the foot-path across the very 
meadow-path Sarah had met him. The wild meadow- 
flowers starred the grass on either side as they brightened 
it then, but the path had been trod, year after year, till 
plantain leaves and burdock, the wild growth that marks 
the steady footprints of man, had sprung up and become 
thrifty along the way. 

But Daniel Hart, the cheerful young fellow, proud 
of his newly-formed marriage-ties, honest, earnest and 
generous, where was he ? That heavy, calm man with 
his eyes kind and serene like those of a Newfoundland 
'dog, but full of human intelligence — that stalwart form 
stooping at the shoulders, more from the weariness of a 
hard day's toil than from age ; the firmly planted foot, 
slow but sure in its tread • the toil-hardened hand swing- 

171 


172 


THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 


ing gently as he walked — did these belong to the youth 
of twenty years ago ? Had the smart youngster grown 
into that strong, steady man ? 

A yoke of oxen* just unhitched from a plow that stood 
in the furrow of a distant corn-field, pursued their swing- 
ing walk homeward a little in advance of their owner, 
bending their necks low and patiently to the yoke, as a 
married couple, with the light of a honeymoon lying 
twenty years off, stoops kindly under the mutual burdens 
of life. 

Once in a while the farmer spoke a word to his oxen, 
for they were old friends, and he loved to reward their 
toil with a cheerful sound ; sometimes he stooped to pick 
a blue ffag or violet from the gVass ; and again he would 
lash the dark leaves with his cart-whip, smiling as he cut 
them up at the roots, and sending a golden drift of dande- 
lions after them with a second whirl of the lash. 

At last he came to the bars ’where Sarah had waited 
for him, twenty years before, after putting her letter in 
the post-office : and there, just at the same spot, stood a 
a neighbor with a letter in his hand bearing the New 
York post-mark, and with the name of his daughter 
daintly traced on the snow of its envelope. 

“ Here’s a letter for some of your women folks,” said 
the man, as he placed it in his hand. “ I was over to the 
corner and the post-master asked me to bring it along. ” 

“ Much obliged. Won’t you come up to the house and 
have some supper?” 

“ Not to-night ; the old woman will be waiting for me. 
Good-day.” 

Daniel Hart returned his salutation with a request to 
be remembered to the women folks, and, as the man 
walked on, glanced again at the superscription. 


173 


THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

It’s from Gillian,” he said, half aloud. “ I expect she 
wants to steal Martha as well as her old aunt — bless her 
sweet eyes I” 

He passed on toward the house, and, when his daughter 
heard his step on the porch, she j*an out to meet him. 

“ How late you are, father !” she exclaimed ; “ tea has 
been ready this half-hour ; I’m afraid the biscuits are 
cold.” 

“Just let me wash up and have a wipe at the roller 
towel and I’m ready,” he replied, patting her head with 
his broad hand. “ Here is something to take up your 
time while I do it.” 

“ It’s from Cousin Gillian,” Martha cried, joyfully, as he 
placed the letter in her hands. 

“ I reckoned as much. I thought Aunt Hetty’s stiff 
fingers couldn’t make such finefied lines as them.” 

Martha had broken the seal and was too deeply ab- 
sorbed in the contents of her epistle to heed his words. 
A letter was an unusual visitor to the girl, and the arrival 
of Gillian’s was looked upon as an important event. 

A joyful expression escaped her as she read ; but her 
father was rubbing his forehead vigorously with the 
coarse towel and did not look around. 

“ Oh, what do you think, father I” she exclaimed. 
“ So kind of her, dear, good Gillian. Isn’t she a cousin 
worth having ?” 

“ Well, what’s the matter ?” asked Daniel Hart, turn- 
ing down his shirt sleeves. 

“ She wants me to come to New York and make her a 
visit ; only think, she is going to give a grand party in 
honor of her new house. Won’t it be a house-warming 
worth while ?” 

“And your silly little head is turned with the idea. 


174 


\ 

THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

Well, well, it’s nat’ral enough, I suppose. Young folks 
will be young folks.” 

“ Can I go, father ? Do say yes. Oh I I am so crazy 
to be off.” 

“ I ain’t much given to saying no to you, am I ?” he 
asked, smiling kindly down upon her. 

“ Then I can go. I am so happy — how nice it will be ! 
And Aunt Hetty, too — I do want to see her so much. 
Oh I dear, won’t I have fun ?” 

She was interrupted in her exclamations by the ap- 
pearance of an ebony face at the door, crowned with a 
roll of black, woolly-hair that circled the corresponding 
head like a turban. 

’Spect the tea’ll be cold if the men folks don’t come,” 
said a discontented voice. “ It’s be’n a drawin’ next door 
to an hour.” 

Coming, Dinah — all on hand,” said Daniel Hart, 
pleasantly. 

“And oh I Dinah,” exclaimed Martha, “I am going to 
New York. My Cousin Gillian has sent for me. Isn’t it 
splendid ?” 

The old negress drew up her gaunt form, and looked as 
if she thought her young mistress was not sufficiently alive 
to a sense of her own dignity. 

“ ’Spected she would, young Misses. Who would she 

a-sent for but her own nat’ral born cousin ?” 

♦ 

“ But it is so kind of her, Dinah — so very kind !” 

“ Seem in a great pucker to go away from hum,” 
grumbled Dinah ; “ I never seed no good of gallivanting 
all over the world. I knows what York is, ’cause I’ve 
travelled ; I’ve be’n thar with Miss Sarah, and it’s my 
’pinion you’ll get lost.” 

“ Not if you go with her, Dinah,” said the farmer. 


THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 


175 


“ Me go travelling ag’in ?” said the old woman, bright- 
ening up at once. 

“ Gillian wants me to bring you,” added Martha ; “ she 
speaks about it particularly, and says you must save her 
some of those old-fashioned cakes nobody can make but 
you.” 

“ Oh I de Lord,” said Dinah, with a chuckle that twisted 
her features into something like an oak-knot. “ Massy 
sakes alive I Wal, de young lady allers was as sweet 
spoken as if she had sugar-plums in her mout. Hi ! hi I 
hi !” and she went off into another and more prolonged 
chuckle. “ How she did use tu walk into dem dough- 
nuts ; ’spect she’d never git nothin’ like dem with her 
fangled city niggers, nohow.” 

“And now let’s have supper,” said Mr. Hart; “you 
and Martha can talk all this over when we’re done.” 

“ I never, ’trudes myself into no discuss,” said Dinah, 
drawing herself up with immense dignity and sailing into 
the house. But all the while she was giving the finishing 
touches to the tea-table her mouth was puckered into a 
grim smile ; and once or twice she was obliged, in order 
to quiet her excessive delight, to give a punch in the side 
to her little sable handmaiden, who dodged vigorously 
every time she become unfortunate enough to get in her 
way. 

Martha sat down at the table radiant with pleasant 
anticipation. Her brown eyes shone like twin-stars, and 
her cheeks wore a richer bloom, than the cinnamon-roses 
that looked in at her through the kitchen window. 

Daniel Hart finished his meal almost in silence, scarcely 
heeding the broken sentences which passed between Dinah 
and her young mistress. He could not tell why, but, 
apart from the pain of losing Martha, he felt a vague 


176 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

fear of the idea of this visit. Back into the past went 
his thoughts again. Sarah’s image rose before him 
bright with youthful hope and anticipation. What a 
gulf of bitter memories rolled between the present and 
that spring time of life I 

He pushed back his plate with a sigh, and seated him- 
self by the window. Martha ran to get his pipe, and, 
having carefully filled it, brought it to him, holding a live 
coal between the tongs that he might light it. 

“ You look tired, father,” she said, when the prepara- 
tions were completed, and he was puffing out a white 
column of smoke from his lips. 

“ Likely as not ; but it’ll all be gone in the morning.” 

Dinah summoned her mistress away nominally for a 
discussion about a pickle-crock, but in reality to whisper 
in her ear : 

“ ’Spose we’ll start right off, young Misses ?” 

*‘At once, my cousin says ; I’ll ask father.” She ran 
out of the pantry again, calling : 

“ Father, father 1” 

“ Well ?” he asked, with a subdued sadness in peculiar 
contrast to her unrestrained joy. 

“ Shall we go soon ? Gillian wants me at once, you 
know ” 

“ As soon as you can get ready, darter.” 

“ Next week, then — do you hear, Dinah ? We are 
going next week.” 

“Dat’s no lifetime,” replied the stately dame, in a tone 
which vainly attempted to express indifference. “ Get 
out of my way, you Liz 1” she added, to her unfortunate 
assistant, but the girl was accustomed to the mode of en- 
forcing obedience which this tone threatened, and pru- 
dently ducked her woolly head to escape the threatened 


THE OLD homestead. 177 

blow. Jest you wash the dishes, you lazy nigger !” 
muttered Dinah, in a tone her master could not hear, 
** and keep your fingers out o’ de pie.” 

‘‘ Hain’t touched ’em,” retorted Liz, wiping her mouth 
with her fingers in direct contradiction to her bold as- 
sertion. 

Martha was accustomed to these altercations, and, 
while listening to her father, paid no attention to this 
scene. 

“And you are glad to go ?” Mr. Hart said, striving to 
be cheerful. 

She slipped her little hand into his, and the browned 
fingers closed over it with a gentle pressure ; while the 
kindly smile which always softened his features, when he 
met the clear glance of her brown eyes, passed over his 
whole face. 

“Would you rather I stayed at home ?” she whispered, 
struggling between an ardent desire to go out into the 
world so natural to the young, and reluctance to leave 
the fond parent, from whom she had been scarcely sepa- 
rated since her earliest remembrance. 

“ N 0 , darter,” he replied ; “ you are young, and it is natu- 
ral you should want to enjoy yourself a little. I ain’t 
going to hinder you. Mebby I shall be a little lonesome 
at first ; but, but ” 

“ But I don’t want to leave you all alone, father dear ; 
you will miss me, I know. I cannot go, that’s all 1” 

“ Of course you shall I You have been a good darter, 
Martha, and never given your old father a mcjtment’s 
pain.” 

Martha bowed her head, her excitement for an instant 
subdued by the earnestness of his voice. 

“I couldn’t be anything else,” she whispered ; “few 
11 


178 


THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 


girls have a father like mine. Uncle Bentley is a good 
man, but I wouldn’t swap my father for him,” and she 
threw her arms caressingly about the strong man’s neck. 

“ Misses !” called Dinah, from the pantry. 

“ Well, what is it ?” * 

Won’t I give the house a clearin’ up to-morrow ?” 

“ 1 guess so, Dinah ; we will talk about it in the morn- 
ing.” 

Dinah muttered something about putting off things 
which ought to be attended to at once, and went on with 
her work in indignant silence. 

All that evening, Martha was in a state of pleasurable 
unrest, which kept her eyes sparkling, and her cheeks 
a-glow with the thousand happy thoughts to which her 
quick imagination gave rise. 

When she had kissed her father good-night and stolen 
up to her room, Dinah went creeping after, and, seating 
herself on the floor by her young mistress’ bed, in- 
dulged freely in the numerous projects which were flitting 
through her mind. Dinah was quite as much excited with 
the thought of the coming visit as Martha herself, al- , 
though she did her best to hide it, ascribing her anxiety 
only to a fear of leaving her dear child to undertake the 
journey alone. 

Daniel Hart sat for a long time in his easy-chair, for- 
getful of fatigue, and indulging in mournful memories of 
the past and present, until he grew heavy-hearted with 
thoughts of his coming loneliness. But when he rose in ’ i 
the morning, all trace of the sorrowful revery had disap- 
peared, and he went about his labors cheerful and kindly ' 

as was his wont. i ■ 

: 


CHAPTER XXI. 


Dinah’s toilet in the garret. 

But Dinah was quite unable to sleep until she had 
looked somewhat to the preparations necessary for her 
journey. So when she left Martha’s room, armed with a 
flaring candle, she betook herself to the garret, where 
stood the chest in which the treasured odds and ends of 
her life had been heaped together. A huge padlock 
secured this miscellaneous wealth from Lizzy’s prying 
eyes ; and when Dinah unlocked it she. looked sharply 
round in fear that the girl might have been dodging her 
footsteps. 

Yery incongruous were the articles displayed by the 
opening of the chest. Old dresses and cloaks, garments 
which Martha had worn when a baby, a black tea-pot 
without a nose, and a Britannia cream-jug that had lost 
its handle, masses of artificial flowers, and a collection of 
old shoes, for Dinah was a perfect martyr to her feet and 
a monomaniac on the subject of saving worn-out Slippers. 
All these things were carefully taken out and held to the 
light for closer inspection. Dinah’s heart sunk within 
her when she reflected that, probably, she might not be 
allowed to take the chest on her intended advent into the 
fashionable world, and the very idea of leaving it behind 
gave her a cramp at the heart. 

“ Xow,” says Dinah, dropping into a gentle train of 
calculation, “ s’posin Mister Hart, or the young un, turn 

179 


180 DINAH’S TOILET IN THE GARRET. 

up their noses at dis ’spectable chist, what is I to ’pend 
on — a band-box, a bundle, or one ob dem kivered baskets ? 
Not none of dem, nohow. If Miss wants a waitin’ maid, 
as she can ’pend one in all ’spects for her manners and 
’spectability, dis chist es got t^go long jes as sartin as I 
Stan’ here. But s’posing she sots her foot down'and says, 

* Dinah, I’s willin’ to take you wid a band-box or bundle, 
but not the chist.’ Then what’ll yer do, Dinah? Will 
yer stay hum and make Liz pay for it all, or guv in an’ 
go anyhow ? Make up your mind in dis ’spect, Dinah, 
’cause there’s gwine to be a tussel, and yer’d as well be 
ready, Dinah, yer had.’” 

After this soliloquy, Dinah rested her head on one hand 
and an elbow on her knee, evidently making up her mind. 

“ Well,” she said, at last, “ if I mus’ guv up, I mus’ — 
no ’stake about dat; for I’se bound to make dem York 
niggers stan’ ’bout afore I’se done wid ’em. Jest tink 
how arkard that poor chil’d be widout a ’sperienced per- 
son to ’tend to her manners. So s’posin’ dey stands out, 
what is de least as I can get long wid ?” 

Here Dinah plunged her hand into the open chest, and 
drew forth a quilt of marvellous pattern, which she par- 
tially unfolded on her lap. 

" Dis is a gwoin’ anyhow,” she muttered ; “ I’se ’quainted 
wid der stuck-up houses in York, partly by ’sperience, 
an’ partly ’cause I’se be’n told. Dey is whitened sepul- 
churs in de parlor ; but when yer gits up-stairs toward the 
roof, look out I Ain’t a gwine to catch the rhumetes for 
none of ’em — that kiver’s boun’ to go 1” 

Here Dinah laid the quilt down and drew forth a small 
cotton shawl, so gay in its original red, green and yellow, 
that time had left it a gaudy article still. The chief de- 
sire of Dinah’s heart had always been a turban, such as 


DINAH’S TOILET IN THE GAERET. 181 

she had heard of among the better class of Southern ne- 
gresses — heard of, but never seen — for, with all her self- 
consequence, Dinah had no knowledge of any town larger 
than the little port at wMch Mr. Bentley and Gillian had 
landed ; hut imagination ran so far ahead of her memory, 
that she really began to believe that all the books she had 
heard her young ladies read, and all the places she had 
heard described by the females of the household, were ab- 
solutely a part of her own experience. 

*‘Now,” said Dinah, eying the shawl, “if I only knew 
how dem niggers twisted ’em up, it’d be ebery ting. I’se 
got dem ear-rings Miss Sarah guv me when she was mar- 
ried ; but how to pucker dis consarn into a turban beats 
me.” 

While she was speaking, Dinah began to fold the 
shawl diagonally and lay it in broad plaits, which she 
prepared to bind over her silvered wool. 

“ Now,” she said, laying the folds across her lap, and 
fishing up a little cracked looking-glass from the depths 
of her chest, which she fastened between the rafters that 
sloped over her — “ now if I kin only get the kink on it, 
the chip ’ill have a waitin’-maid such as ain’t found every 
day. Golly, them’s um I them’s um I” 

Here Dinah gave the shawl a twist, gathered the ends 
in a knot over her left temple, and really stumbled upon 
the very method of folding a Madras kerchief into a tur- 
ban, except that she left the corner behind flying loose ; 
and the shawl, being too voluminous, gave an enormous 
size to her head, while the ends swept over her shoulders 
like a pair of wings. 

But this exaggeration only increased Dinah’s triumph. 
She gave a satisfied glance into the glass, and drawing 
forth a gorgeous calico dress from the chest, proceeded to 


182 DINAH’S TOILET IN THE GAKRET. 

array herself, as she muttered — Like de lilies oh de field 
dat Nebuchadnezzer talked ^bout.” 

But just as Dinah had clasped the gown at her throat 
with a huge red glass brooch that had all the brilliancy 
of twenty carbuncles to her, and was fluttering around the 
broken glass, with her head on one side and her hands ex- 
panded in solemn admiration, a suppressed giggle broke 
from the stairs, followed by Lizzie’s voice, exclaiming — 

“ Oh, golly I oh, golly I ain’t we fine ! Lor I lor ! hi ! hi !” 

Whereupon old Dinah seized the flaring candle, stick and 
all, with both hands, and would have sent it after the 
sound. But, reoollecting the open chest, she concluded to 
disrobe and lock up her treasures, philosophically mutter- 
ing that “ she could lick that imp ob Satan any time ; but 
to leave that chist unlocked was a tempter to providence 
that she couldn’t think on.” 

The next morning, as soon as Martha’s various duties 
were performed to her own satisfaction — by no means an 
easy task, for she was an orderly little body — she took 
refuge in her chamber for the purpose of searching her 
bureau-drawers and bringing to light any treasures they 
might contain. 

The strongest desire of her heart was to find something^ 
which might be converted into a garment fit for Gillian’s 
grand party — it never occurring to the innocent soul that 
she would be guilty of the extravagance of purchasing a 
dress for that special purpose. She pulled out a variety 
of dresses which had belonged to her mother and her aunt, 
originally of pretty material, but so faded from long years 
of unfolding, and so old-fashioned in form, that there was 
little hope to be found in them. 

As she surveyed the scant skirts and contracted sleeves, 
Martha’s heart rather sank within her, but still she did 


DINAH S TOILET IN THE GAKRET. 183 

not quite despair. Laying the incongruous pile aside for 
some farther consideration, she took out of their hiding- 
places various little articles of jewellery which she pos- 
sessed, turning them over somewhat hopelessly when she 
remembered Gillian’s wealth in that line. 

■ A fashionable lady would have smiled at the care with 
which Martha treasured her few valuables. But the old- 
fashioned brooch and quaint necklace were almost -sacred 
in her eyes, for they had belonged to her aunt of whom 
she had heard so much, but who had died far away from 
that quiet old homestead long before the young girl’s 
remembrance. 

While she was thus engaged, she heard Dinah’s slip- 
shod patter upon the stairs, and hastened to call her in 
that she might consult with her upon that all-important 
subject to every feminine heart. 

The jewellery in Dinah’s eyes was every thing that could 
be desired ; but about the party dress she was not quite 
certain., and stood with her head on one side doubtfully. 

“ As for the jew’lry, there isn’t no dubitation : but I 
isn’t quite so sartin ’bout the dress. There’s that ar pink 
gown, I ’member Miss Sarah brung that from York, but 
that’s sich a heap o’ years ago — least ways you mought 
try it on.” 

Martha acted upon the suggestion ; she had gone 
through the operation a hundred times in her childish 
days, but now the scant skirt and short waist made her 
laugh till the tears came into her merry eyes. 

“ Why, Dinah, I look like an umbrella half-shut up,’^ 
she exclaimed, ruefully; and for once Dinah had no 
answer to make. 

Luckily for her feelings, she perceived at this instant 
that Liz had crept into the room and was watching the 


184 Dinah’s toilet in the garret. 

operation with eyes and mouth wide open. The un- 
fortunate damsel betrayed her presence by an involuntary 
exclamation which escaped her at the sight of her young 
mistress’ grandeur. 

“ Oh, ki ! Missy, ain’t you splenderiferous I Oh, you 
is — ki !” 

Dinah made a dart at her grand daughter, but her stiff 
limbs were no match for Lizzy’s powers of locomotion, 
and the “ little limb” was safe down-stairs by the time the 
irate Dinah reached the door. 

“ No, you don’t,” she shouted, snapping her fingers, 
bold from a sense of security. “ Mean old nigger, any- 
how, if you is my granny. Ki 1” 

“You Liz,” shouted Dinah, “ef them dishes ain’t 
washed when I git down-stairs, I’ll straighten your wool 
as if it’d been hackled a week, mind dat now.” 

“Woolly yourself,” retorted Liz; “old nigger I” but 
hearing Dinah on the stairs, she took refuge in the pantry 
and began a great clatter among the dishes, spattering 
the clean floor without the slightest remorse, and pretend- 
ing to sing, though there was a quiver in her voice and 
desperation in her industry. 

“ Never seed such a limb of Satan,” ejaculated Dinah, 
as she returned to the chamber ; but Martha took the 
contest as a thing of course, especially as she was quite 
certain that Liz could defend herself without help ; and 
that the old woman loved her grand child far too well for 
fear of any real cruelty. 

“ I’se like to ask a question, young Misses,” said Dinah, 
solemnly. 

“ What do you call me that for ?” Martha asked. 

“ I knows our sitistation better than you does. Miss 
Martha,” replied Dinah, with dignity ; “ ’tain’t likely a 


nah’s toilet in the garret. 185 

pusson like me is gwine to be obstrusive down in York. 
But I wants to know what complacity I’m a gwine in ?” 

“ What capacity ?” Martha asked, doubtfully. 

In course, Misses ! Miss Gillian hab a lady’s maid, 
and I spect you ort to be as good as she.” 

Now the idea of Dinah’s setting up for a lady’s maid 
struck Martha as very ludicrous, although her little femi- 
nine vanity contemplated the idea with sufficient com- 
placency. 

“It would be more dignified,” she said, struggling 
between a smile and a consciousness of her own import- 
ance. “ Would you like to be my maid, Dinah ? Is that 
what you are aiming at ?” 

“ Seems to me it would be more proper. Misses ; I’se 
had a husband, in course ; he want much ’count, nohow, 
and ’tain’t no use letting our little secrets out o’ de family ; 
and widders make de best ladies’ maids I ’spect on ac- 
count of der ’sperience.” 

“Of course,” Martha said, smiling, for Dinah’s hus- 
band had always been regarded by her as a somewhat 
mythical personage. 

Now the chest came into Dinah’s mind again, and she 
deemed it a proper moment to drag that portion of her 
desires into the conversation. 

“ There ain’t nothin’ like havin’ ebery ting ready,” she 
remarked. “ I’se powerfully glad ’bout havin’ that chist 
of mine.” 

“Oh, Dinah, you can’t take that horrid old thing I” 
exclaimed Martha, aghast. 

“ I’se travelled, young Misses,” replied Dinah, senten- 
tiously, perceiving her advantage, and determined to fol- 
low it up ; “ and I knows de world — ain’t gwine to hav’ 


186 Dinah’s’ toilet in the garret. 

no stuck-up city niggers laffiu’ cause we hain’t got ^cou- 
trements enough.” 

Martha deemed it prudent to say no more, being well 
acquainted with the old woman’s obstinacy, and trusting 
that her father’s influence would dissuade her; while 
Dinah chuckled inwardly at the success of her scheme, 
and rose ^ such a state of self-complacency that she 
straightway seized the opportunity of giving her young 
mistress a short lecture. 

‘‘ Law, I knows dem fine folks 1 their airs ’ll profound 
you, honey ; but I’ve seen Miss Sarah do it, and I can 
construct you. Now thar’s the curchey— kind o’ this 
way.” 

She pulled up her dress, revealing her trim ankles, and 
made a bobbing salutation, which set Martha off into a 
fit of laughter that was loudly echoed from the stairs — 
Miss Liz had gained courage enough to steal again upon 
the scene of action. 

“Dat cuss— darned fr«e nigger!” cried the irate 
Dinah, not daring to vent her wrath upon her mis- 
tress ; and away she ran with astonishing agility down- 
stairs and out of the house, just in time to see Miss Lizzy 
fly across the cabbage-patch, and take refuge on the top 
of a wood-shed w’here she could not reach her. 

“ I’ll fix you, sis, wait and see,” she gasped, while Liz, 
between fear and exultation, was chattering like a monkey 
on her perch, “ I’ll larn ye de ’spects due yer olders I” 

Lizzy turned one hand into a tube, and, putting it to 
her lips, shouted, “Ki— ki!” at which Dinah seized a 
bean-pole and made various unsuccessful pokes at her, 
but the damsel evaded them, and seemed to enjoy the 
sport so much that the old woman was forced to give it 
up and retire in grim ferocity. 


CHAPTER XXIL 


MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK WITH HER MAID DINAH. 

At length the day arrived on which Martha Hart was 
^0 make her entry into the great world. The hour was 
so early that you could scarcely see a streak of rose in 
the east ; nothing but a pale flush, which shone like a 
smile across the apple trees dripping with dew, and the 
purple lilac plumes that crowned the bushes in front of 
the house. 

They had taken breakfast by candle-light — a usual cus- 
tom in that thrifty household ; so there was sadness, but 
none of that dreary look of discomfort which usually ac- 
companies a departure at early dawn. 

Every thing was ready : Martha’s compact trunk and 
band-box, in its calico case, with a basket filled with 
cakes, a wedge of cheese, and some dried beef, stood to- 
gether, ready for the wagon, to which. the hired man was 
“ hitching up his horses” back of the house. 

Dinah, that subtle politician and strong-minded woman, 
had prevailed on the chest question, and sat upon her 
property, grim and triumphant, like a general in the 
midst of a victorious encampment. By her side stood 
Lizzy, rubbing both sets of knuckles into her eyes, and 
only taking them away, when Dinah became unbearably 
pathetic, to shake off the drops and plant them on duty 
again. 

There was a certain tenderness in Dinah’s injunctions 
that made all Lizzy’s better nature overflow, like a pool 

187 


188 maetha’s trip to new yor^ 

in which a stone has been cast, but which Dinah held in 
check, ashamed of such ignoble weakness. 

Daniel Hart stood by the window, with his daughter 
clinging to his arm. He was very grave, even sad, at 
the thought of her departure. Never yet had it been 
well with those of his family who went forth from that 
quiet homestead into the bustling world. He could date 
poor Hetty’s pale cheeks, and Sarah’s uneven spirit, from 
the time of their return from the city where his only child 
was so eager to hasten. 

“ You will write to me very soon, child ?” 

Yes, father. Oh, I am almost sorry to go I Only 
say one word, and I will stay at home and send for Gil- 
lian to visit us this summer instead.” 

“No, no : your mind is set on going, and it will not be 
kind to disappoint your cousin. Come back with the 
same honest, light heart you take away, and I don’t 
care.” 

“Why, what do you mean, father? of course I shall, 
and lighter too, for I shall have seen the world.” 

Daniel Hart shook his head. The past, which was 
ever uppermost in his mind, brought before his sight two 
girlish faces, both handsome, yet totally unlike in their 
loveliness. He recollected those two faces, so changed 
by sickness, toil, or sorrow, he never knew which, that 
those who loved them best would scarce have recognized 
his sisters again. 

“ Well, well, we shall see,” he said, half-aloud. “ Only 
come back as wholesome and happy as you are now, and 
I shall be satisfied.” 

Martha’s head drooped upon his arm, and for a few mo- 
ments they stood in silence, each occupied with thoughts 
different as though an ocean had rolled between them.. 


MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK. 189 

Meanwhile Dinah was busy giving her last directions 
to the youthful Liz, who stood, with her hair in wild com- 
motion and her eyes rolling incessantly, confused by the 
varied orders which the old woman poured volubly forth. 

Ye sees, Liz, dis is de most ’portant Vent ob yer re- 
sistance ; you’s gwine to hab de control ob dis Establish- 
ment ; for any pusson dat comes to help wash and sich 
like, ’ill only be supernumerums. No\y, Liz, mind what 
I tells you ; get de dinners good, don’t nibble at de dough- 
nuts, and don’t stick your fingers in de cream and ’suade 
’em it’s de cat.” 

“ Oh, I didn’t, never I” ejaculated Liz, with her most 
innocent face. 

“ That ain’t neither here nor thar,” replied Dinah, 
waving her hand majestically ; “ I isn’t retruding de past : 
I’se counselin’ for de futur.’ Be a good gal, and de Lord 
’ill bless you I Ef any o’ them ornary niggers at de cor- 
ner ’quires about me, jest say I hab gon^ to visit Miss 
Bentley, down in X^rk — dat’s all.” 

“ Yes, Dinah,” faltered Liz, quite awed by the grandeur 
of this last announcement. 

“And now, Liz, I’se goin’ to trust a solumcholy duty 
to you.” . . 

“ Oh, my 1” groaned Lizzie. Don’t I” 

“ Yes, I is, chip ; and I hopes you’ll be wordy on it, 
little as you is,” repeated Dinah, rising majestically from 
her chest, and fitting the heavy key into the padlock, which 
opened with a clang. 

“ Yes, I’se gwine to trust to your, ’scretion, Liz, ^and 
gib into yer own bans de ’heritance ob yer forefaders, 
though what der was on ’em ’sides de indervideral afore 
yer wasn’t of no ’count, any how 1” 

Here Dinah lifted the lid of her chest and drew forth 


190 MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK. 

the black tea-pot, the pewter cream-cup, and an old white 
satin slipper, which she sat reverently down while securing 
the clamps of her chest again. 

“Now, Lizzie,” she said, remounting her throne, and 
wielding the slipper as if it had been a symbol of authority, 
while the cream-cup and its companion lay in her lap — 
“ now, Lizzie, ye sees dese tings : dey ’longed to yer 
grandad when h^ was a likely young nigger, an’ had de 
honor ob marryin’ de indervideral as is afore yer. Dat is, 
dey was de settin’ out she brought to him wid her fair 
self, as he wud say when he had drunk up the valley of a 
day’s washin’ in strong whiskey afore we detired to our 
connuberal couch. Liz, yer grandad wud drink, but he 
alers did it like a gemman, and dat’s why I rev’rentializes 
his mem’ry as I dus. Now, Liz, I prizes dese sacrum 
tings for de sake ob de dead and berried ; for when he lay 
in dem delirum trumphants dat tuk him off, I ’ministered 
his last drink ^t of dis ’dentical cup. Oh, Lizzie ! it was 
a solumneous moment when he guv up de ghost !” 

“ Oh, don’t — don’t !” cried Liz, screwing the two little 
black fists into her eyes, and writhing to and fro. “It 
scares me to hear about dead folks and their ghosts I” 

“Be imposed, Lizzie — be imposed; it is sich tings as 
makes de soul de more fit for de glory ob hebben. Dere 
he lay on his pillar, wId both eyes wide open ; an’ ses he, 
‘ Dinah ;’ an’ I said — 

“ ‘ My lub.’ 

“Den he say agin, ‘Dinah;’ and I say, ‘What is ’em, 
honey V Den he says agin, ‘ Dinah, do yer lub me ?’ and 
ses I, ‘Yes, Jube,.I lubs yer yet, if yer does drink ter 
much ; for I ’members ole times, Jube ;’ and den, Liz, de 
tears choke me, an’ I coul’n’t say de rest as I wanted 
ter. 


MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK. 191 


“ When yer grandad sees dat, he ris up on his elber, 
and ses he--r 

‘ Dinah, kiss me 1^ an’ I kiss ’em. Den he ses, * Dinah, 
kiss me ’gin,’ an’ I kiss ’em ’gin. Den, Liz, he fell back 
and die wid a smile on him count’nance.” • 

Oh ! oh !” sobbed Lizzie ; “poor grandad — poor, ole 
grandad !” 

“ Ole I” exclaimed Dinah, indignantly. “Ole! Jube 
wasn’t but just a grown man when he died, an’ never 
would a been of no ’count, ho how ; so hush up an’ ’tend 
to what I’se a sayin’ ’bout dis ’portant trust. Dis cup an’ 
de tea-pot, ’memorations of my connuberal ferlicity, I’se 
gwine ter guv you to keep, an’ I want you to be faith- 
less.” 

“ Oh, I will— -I will,” sobbed Lizzie. “ I hope ole 
Scratch ’ll get me by the wool if I don’t.” 

Here Lizzie held out her reverential hands, and Dinah 
placed the precious relics therein, keeping ^e slipper for 
another lecture. 

Now, Liz, you see dis shoe : it ’longed ter Miss Sarah 
arter she was married. I ’spect she’d took ’em inter de 
house ob Satan, an’ danced in ’em by de mark on de side ; 
but dey was left ahind when she went ’broad, an’ I tuk 
’session. Now, Liz, when we gits inter de wag — de car- 
riage I means — yer take dis white shoe and shie it arter 
us jes as far as yer kin fling. Does yer comprehension, 
fLiz ?” 

“ Yes, yes — I know it’s luck ; I’ll do it, golly I Won’t 
I guv it a shie I Never ye fear, granny !” 

“I’se ’joiced to see yer can comprehensionate ’struc- 
tions,” said Dinah, adding the satin slipper to the relics 
which Lizzie huddled together in her arms. “Now, 
Liz ” 


t 


192 maltha’s TEIP TO NEW YORK. 

But that moment the rattle of wheels came round the 
house, and Martha ran to the door, crying out nervously, 

“ Oh, Dinah, the wagon is ready,” and turning to her 
father, she flung both arms around his neck and wept 
aloud. 

“ Hollo, hurry up I” shouted the hired man, driving 
the wagon round with a dash, and cracking his whip 
at Liz. 

Liz gave a leap and a cry, stumbled, tried to recover 
herself, and fell crash upon the relics of her grandmother’s 
domestic felicity. There she lay flat upon the stoop, with 
those treasures crushed under her, and her great, wild 
eyes turned imploringly on Dinah, who stood above her 
in speechless wrath. Liz made an effort to get up and 
scamper away, but she only whirled over and gathered 
herself into a dusky ball, from which a pair of scared eyes 
rolled in every direction. 

While Dinah’s eyes were turned away for an instant, 
the frighten^ creature began to feel for the broken 
pieces. First she fished out a fragment of the tea-pot, 
with the handle broken in two, which she tucked under 
herself again instantaneously. Then she drew forth the 
milk-cup, and her poor features began to tremlble like a 
jelly between fear and fun, for it was crushed into a 
pewter cocked-hat, and the sight brought a giggle into 
her groans. But Dinah, instead of flying into a rage, as 
Martha had expected, stood perfectly silent, looking down 
upon the culprit with a solemn gravity that made Liz 
creep backward till the walls of the house stopped her 
progress ; then starting wildly up, she gave one. leap 
round the corner and disappeared, like a frightened hound, 
bearing the pewter relic with her, but leaving the crushed 
tea-pot behind. 


MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK. 193 

“ I didn’t go to do it. It dropped,” she shouted back. 

Dinah looked after’ her without a movement of the face. 

“ Why, Dinah,” said the young mistress, suppressing a 
laugh, while the tears still trembled in her eyes, “you 
take it like a Christian. I thought you ‘would have been 
furious.” 

Dinah turned solemnly toward her, and, giving both 
hands a gentle spread, replied : 

“ ’Tain’t no use — I can’t find no words to ’spress my 
feelin’s. Preachin’ couldn’t do ’em justice,”- and, folding 
her arms, Dinah sat quietly down on her chest, and even 
moved aside meekly when the man came to lift it into the 
wagon. She really had no language in which to express 
her indignation. 

Daniel Hart lifted his daughter’s trunk into the wagon, 
settled the basket of eatables under the seat, and came 
back to the porch again. 

“ Come, darter, every thing is ready,” he said, looking 
sorrowfully into his child’s face. 

She would have thrown her arms around him again, 
but he lifted her gently into the wagon, put a little black 
wallet into her hands with a whisper to make herself fine 
as the best of ’em, and turned away. 

Dinah clambered up the hind-wheel rather indignant 
that she also was not lifted to her place, and, seating her- 
self grimly on the chest, was ready at any moment to 
enter upon the fashionable career which she felt to be her 
destiny. 

Just as they were driving off, a white satin slipper came 
flying after them, and the face of naughty Liz was thrust 
round the corner. 

After the slipper came a half-scared shout of, 

“ Gocd-by, granny — good-by, and luck,” finished off by, 
12 


194 Martha’s trip to new york. 

“ Oh I golly, golly, now won^t I have iny own way ? — oh I 
won’t I ?” 

Dinah only heard the good-by, and her old heart melted 
when she saw the shoe flying toward her like a bird of 
promise, so she deigned to wave her hand. 

Martha looked sadly back so long as her father could 
be seen in' the porch ; then she had another good cry, and 
was inconsolable so long as any familiar object remained 
in sight. 

After a time Martha’s spirits rose almost as buoyant as 
before. She chatted gayly with the farmer, and laughed 
heartily at Dinah’s words of wisdom, for the old woman 
was in one of her most oracular moods, and delivered her 
opinions freely upon every possible subject. 

It was afternoon when they reached the river, where 
they found the small steamer lying. 

As Martha was passing along the dock, she found her- 
self face to face with John Downs, the young man who 
had driven her uncle and cousin to her father’s house, 
and who, in truth, had chanced that way more than 
once since. The young girl blushed like a rose at this 
encounter. , 

“Well, if it ain’t Miss Hart 1” he exclaimed, flushing 
up to the temples with a bashful joy, which made his 
brown face really handsome. “Won’t you shake hands 
with a fellow ? How’s your father and that handsome 
cousin of yours ?” 

“All well,” Martha said, extending her hand, which he 
grasped with unconscious force in his strong fingers. 
“Are you going down the river ?” 

“Well, yes,” he said, hesitatingly; “I don’t exactly 

“ I am going to New York to visit my cousin.” 


MARTHA^S TRIP TO NEW YORK. 195 

“And I am going to York, too,” he replied, brightening 
up wonderfully. 

“ I say. Downs,” said one of the men, approaching at 
that moment, “ you’re a-goin’ to Sing Sing, ain’t you ?” 

“ No, I’m going to York.” 

“ Why you said yesterday ” 

“ ’Tisn’t of the least consequence what I said yesterday. 
I say now I’m going to the city.” 

Before an hour was over, they were comfortably estab- 
lished on the deck of the steamer, and gliding smoothly 
out into the river. 

Martha and John Downs stood by the cabin door in 
pleasant conversation ; while Dinah had established her- 
self on her chest, spreading her skirt garefully over the 
.huge padlock, and looking grimly at every one who hap- 
pened to approach her. It was some 'time before she 
could feel really at ease concerning the safety of her pos- 
sessions ; and it was not until the^ captain assured her 
that he would himself keep his eye upon them, that she 
could be induced to stir from her perch long enough to 
see the cabin. 

It was well for Martha’s peace of mind that she knew 
little of thef world, and that no other passengers were on 
board, or Dinah’s attire might have caused her some un- 
easiness. The old woman had arrayed herself in a skirt 
of pressed flannel, below which peeped out a quilted 
petticoat ; above all was a gown of red merino, fastened 
by a broad, green ribbon ; and on her head she wore a 
huge coal-scuttle bonnet, miraculously trimmed and deco- 
rated with a long, green vail that was drawn on one side, 
and flaunted like a streamer in the wind. 

She carried a huge bag of eatables — her own private 
stock — which might have served for a sea-voyage, but 


19G Martha’s trip to new York. 

nothing could induce her to believe there was more than 
enough— indeed she had great fears that they might fall 
short, and suffer shipwreck and famine on that perilous 
voyage. “ Besides,” she reflected, if there’s any left, 
Miss Gillian ’ll be mighty glad to eat a hum-made pie. 
’Tain’t likely them fangled city niggers feed her with sich 
like dainties as her mother was brought up on.” 

After these arguments had been repeated once or twice, 
Martha gave up the contest ; and Dinah, triumphant as 
usual, took full charge of the commissary department, 
only disturbing the young people now and then with offers 
of sandwiches and drop-cakes, which they invariably 
refused. 

In fact, it breaks my heart to record it, but young 
Downs and Martha, much to Dinah’s disgust, always 
selected those corners of the deck m(^t remote from her 
chest and the best sheltered anglefe and bulwarks. Once 
that very correct woman was scandalized by the momentary 
glimpse of a plump, brown hand clasped in that of the 
young farmer — a hand so marvellously like that of her 
young mistress that, in her position as chaperone, she felt 
it her duty to step down and see what it was all about. 
But, when she reached that quarter of the deck where the 
young people had been, Martha was leaning demurely 
over the bulwarks, looking for the rose-tints that always 
settled on the river at sunset, she had been toM. As for 
young Downs, he stood a couple of yards off, with both 
arms folded behind him, examining the make of the 
steamer, as if he had been a ship-builder, and intended to 
carry off her model in his mind. 

-^Dinah was not quite satisfied with this state of things, 
and sniffed the air in a disaffected way, resolved to be 
more vigilant in her watch. Firm in this virtuous resolve, 


Martha’s trip to new york. 197 

she was looking for a seat, when one of the sailors 
mounted on her chest, and began sacrilegiously to beat 
his heels against its front till the padlock rattled again. 

Dinah could not stand this, but darted off on a short 
run to dislodge the enemy. 

Directly after Dinah had retreated, Downs also became 
curious to watch imaginary rose-tints settle on the river, 
and drew close to Martha’s side, searching for them 
in her downcast eyes. The* young fellow was some- 
what troubled in his mind about several matters, and, 
being a frank, generous soul, spoke out like a man as he 
was. 

“You have got a rich uncle down in York, Miss 
Martha ?” 

How did the fellow find out her name was Martha ? 
Had she told him because Miss Hart sounded so formal ? 

“ Yes,” she answered, with a little sparkle of pride, “ I 
believe uncle is very rich indeed. They tell me he lives 
in splendid style. Gillian has a carriage and footman, 
and every thing all to herself ; the house is large enough 
for a hotel, and only two of them ; besides ” 

“ And plenty of beaux visit there, I suppose — hand- 
some young fellows, who dress like lords, and talk like 
books ?” questioned the young man, in a dissatisfied way. 

“Oh, I think it very likely. Gillian is beautiful, and 
loves company.” 

“And you — you love that kind of company. Miss 
Martha ?” 

“ Me ? Oh, indeed I how can I tell ? I, who never m 
my life saw a man that looked like a lord and talked like 
a book, except it may be my Uncle Bentley.” 

“ But you will meet those men at your uncle’s ; i\,othing 
is more likely. ” 


198 MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK. 

Well, what then ? I only hope they will be half as 
nice as Uncle Bentley, and it will be pleasant enough.” 

Downs took off his hat and began to wave it to and fro 
before his face, which was hot with uneasy, jealous 
thoughts. What chance had he — a rough, homespun 
farmer — against the people this young girl would soon be 
thrown among ? It seemed a desperate venture ; but he 
was brave as well as honest. The love which filled his 
heart left its fire on his cheek, and its tenderness in his 
voice, but it was prompt as truth. 

One word, Miss Martha, before we part ; for the smoke 
which rises yonder comes from New York, and that which 
seems a forest of dead trees, away off, is the shipping you 
have heard of. One word, and then, come what will, I 
have acted like an honest man, and said my say. I love you 
with my whole heart. Have I any chance against those 
men who will swarm around you like humming-birds 
about a wild honeysuckle ?” 

Martha was silent. She had given one little start and 
drawn a quick breath at his first words, and now stood, 
in a tumult of mute bliss, gazing on the water. It was 
not sunset ; but rose-tints, brighter than the sky ever sent, 
danced over the waves, and all the depths were rich with 
the purple glow which first-love casts over every thing. 

“Will you not speak to me?” whispered the young 
man, touching her hand — “ will you not speak to me ?” 

“I cannot,” she answered, in a de^er and sweeter 
whisper — “ I cannot. My heart is too full. The very air 
makes me giddy.” 

He stooped down and looked into her eyes. Her face 
was close to his, and he saw her lips tremble, like the 
leaves of a red rose when the dew drops away from its 
heart * 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 


199 


But, for the universe he could not have kissed those lips, 
or gazed long into those troubled eyes. He would as 
soon have shot a dove on its nest. No ; a coarser pian 
might have been tempted to these things by her fresh 
youth ; but he only took her hand softly in his, and they 
stood trembling together, while the sunset stole pleasantly 
over them, brightening the distance with gold. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL, 

Some weeks had passed since Gillian’s visit to Mrs. 
Ransom when she had first met Woodworth. In those 
weeks she had become more restless than ever. Her sea- 
sons of fitful sadness came on more frequently. Her 
cheerfulness sometimes rose to excitement ; then for days 
together she would float away into a state of dreamy hap- 
piness that had no visible cause, but which brought all 
the rich poetry of her nature to the surface. 

Love is the mission of womanhood ; and when it finds 
a first expression, either in feeling or in sound, that seems 
originality which almost every true heart has tasted from 
the time of Eve down to the nineteenth century. 

I do not say that Gillian knew that the sweet thoughts 
and yearning wish for sympathy which possessed her 
sprang from the quick unsealing of her heart; but Mrs. 
Ransom was more keen of sight, and these mutations in 
the character of her protege gave her great anxiety. Why 
she should regret this evident growth of love in the heart 


^200 THK DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 

of that young girl it seemed impossible to determine. It 
may be that she felt some responsibility flow back to her- 
self from the fact that Gillian had met Woodworth for the 
first time under her roof, and that more than once during 
the last month they had, by a sort of intuition, encoun- 
tered each other in their morning visits to her. These 
visits were sure to end in a ramble through the grounds, 
during which it always fell out that the elder lady was, 
for a few moments at least, left to solitary meditation ; 
while Woodworth lured Gillian off to search for sweetbriar 
among the thickets, or found some object of interest on 
the shore. 

One day the two stood together on the ledge of rocks 
which lay within sight of the library window, to which 
Mrs. Ransom had retired with an uncomfortable conscious- 
ness that she was one too many in that morning ramble. 
Evidently her retreat had not been noticed, or her absence 
regretted ; for her visitors stood together on the shelf of 
rock, surrounded by the dew and fr^hness of morning, 
with one of the loveliest prospects in r the world before 
them, yet so evidently unconscious of every thing but their 
two selves, that the smiling scene might have turned to a 
desert and they would not have regarded ^the change. 

Mrs. Ransom sighed heavily as she looked upon them — 
sighed till her breath seemed a moan ; theft, wearily turn- 
ing away, she lifted one hand to her forehead, drew it over 
her eyes, and, lo ! the tears fldHved against it in great, 
heavy drops. ^ ^ 

Why did Julia Ransom cry so bRterl/^^ That stately 
man was her friend — a dear old friend with ^hoiti common 
pursuits and many a bright tie of thoughts h«^ bound her ; 
And Gillian, ah ! there was no doubt in it — she^bved the 
bright girl as only a woman so lonely and so endowed can 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 201 

love the beautiful and wayward of her sex. Why was she 
sad, while, standing there in her proud loneliness, she gazed 
out upon that picture of growing affection ? Was it pos- 
^ sible that she loved Woodworth herself? There would 
seem to be nothing so very unreasonable in the idea ; for 
Julia was a fine woman still, gifted with the best elements 
of beauty, of mobile features and an expression on which 
the thought beamed before it was uttered. The dispar- 
ity in their ages, too, was not so very great ; and in 
character those two persons were so much alike that the 
only wonder was they had not long since been declared 
lovers. 

Yet her look did not bespeak this state of things. There 
was neither anger nor jealousy in the tearful glances:6he 
cast upon the lovers ; but the pathos of a deep, deep re- 
gret filled her eyes and trembled around her mouth while 
slie walked to and fro, moaning with unconscious pain, 
but still keeping that group upon the rocks in sight. 

And a beautiful picture it was I Woodworth was speak- 
ing : sweet and proudly humble were his words. You 
could tell that by the stoop of his head and the position 
of his stately person as he bent toward Gillian, who lifted 
her eyes to his with the earnestness of a child, while her 
hands clasped themselves in a mass of scarlet roses which 
he had just gathered for her from a flower-bed that sloped 
toward the river. 

Julia was not near enough to see the color of that fair, 
oval cheek, to which the red flowers seemed to have lent 
their richness ; nor could she discern the expression which 
came to those eyes — tBb terror and delicious- wonder that 
looked for an instant into his face and then vailed itself 
beneath those soft, golden-bro\\!ff^shes.- No, no ; to have 
witnessed that would have been to reveal all the force and 


202 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 


earnestness of a love that few human beings are ever 
privileged to know, at least on this side the grave. 

It was, perhaps, because Julia felt how all-prevailing 
the love of two such persons must prove that she looked 
upon it with those evidences of anxiety. Perhaps she 
thought of her own isolation ; and that true heart, warm 
and romantic as ever beat in a human bosom, cast back 
upon itself during the best part of a life, was thrilled with 
self-pity by all the waste she found there. 

I cannot tell what were the feelings which gave rise to 
those tears, but surely no unworthy or selfish grief had 
place there ; for after a little she wiped the drops from 
her eyes, and a heavenly smile swept the clouds from her 
face. She sat down upon the little veranda, to which 
her library opened, and watched the picture on the ledge 
with a new and more gentle interest. 

With what sweet humility the proud girl bowed her 
head and lisifened ! How earnest, how bright with ten- 
derness, his face shone out as it bent toward her ! All her 
limbs must have trembled, for, one by one, she dropped 
the roses around her feet, leaving her white hands clasped 
and her eyes downcast, as if some sweet thanksgiving 
were singing at her heart, and she was afraid he might 
guess at the hidden joy. 

Gillian scarcely seemed tall then ; her figure drooped 
like a flower on its stalk when the dew is heavy : at last 
she looked around as if her strength were giving way. 
Just below them, along the shelf of the rock, fleeces of 
moss had been transplanted from the woods, and lay in 
cushions, soft and rich as those in an oriental seraglio ; 
aye, richer, for the morning sunshine embroidered their 
delicate green with gold, and the night dew trembled over 
them like diamonds. Over this moss some of Gillian’s 


203 


THE DOUBLE PROP L . 

roses had fallen, and when she sat down ^heir fragrance 
was all around her. So it should have been for an hour 
like that — the one brief hour of perfect bliss which a poor 
mortal knows sometimes in a lifetime, and learns to look 
forward to the heaven that must be so much like it • ever 
after. 

Was Julia Ransom thinking of the one hour in her own 
life so much like that ; or, had all such joy been a stranger 
to her ? I cannot tell, for she never spoke of herself. 
You only knew that she had felt and suffered by the 
words that thrilled you with pain or tenderness when she 
wrote. A woman endowed like her was not likely to jin- 
vail her heart. If you saw it through the mists of a high 
thought, it was all you could hope to learn of the life 
which lay enshrined within the glory of her frame. I do 
not know of what she was thinking ; but, as Woodworth 
threw himself along the moss, at Gillian’s feet, and gather- 
ing up one of the roses, carried it, blushing with kisses, 
from his lips to hers, Julia arose, with a faint shadow still 
around her eyes, and walked toward them. 

She saw the color rush up to Gillian’s neck as her foot- 
steps sounded on the rock. As for Woodworth, he half 
rose, and held out his hand, challenging her congratula- 
tions with a triumphant smile. Julia shook her head 
with a touch -of sadness; her fingers were cold as he 
clasped them, but she bent lovingly over Gillian and 
kissed her on the forehead. 

Then the warm scarlet rushed over the young girl in 
a torrent of blushes, and tears i^f beautiful joy sparkled 
in her eyes. 

“ Now,” said Woodworth, pressing hi^ Slips on Mrs. 
Ransom’s hand, “ now my happiness is rounded : without 
you, our best friend, nothing is complete. Do not look 


204 TH^ DOUBLE PEOPOSAL. 

sad; we have' le'toed to love each other in both loving 
you.’’ 

“ Oh, flatterer,” said Mrs. Ransom, gently ; “in a little 
while you will say it was because Gillian here was like 
me that you sought her*” 

“And so she is.- The same warm heart — the same gen- 
erous charity — the same great faults ; for you have no 
little ones, upon my life, Mrs. Ransom : it is because she 
is like you in these things that I love her.” 

“ Do not flatter,” said Mrs. Ransom, looking wistfully 
at the young face before her. “ If there is any resem- 
blance, it lies in the affection we feel for each other^ 

“And in a general cast of thought which struck me 
from the-j first. I really should think Miss Bentley had 
lived with you all her life.” 

“And so she has, the best portion of it,” said Gillian, 
gratefully, “for if life is measured by thoughts and feel- 
ings, I have only learned hOw to exist here : all other 
places seem distasteftil to me now.” 

“But your father?” said Julia, a little reproachfully. 

“ Surely life is sweet with him,” 

Gillikn felt the gentle rebuke, and her eyes fell. 

“ Oh, I had forgotten my^ father— you know how I 
love him. Indeed, who could help it? But I do not 
know how it is — he sometimes seems to bear my presence' 
with pain ; and when I speak out the thought that comes 
uppermost, or feel more than usually happy, he shrinks 
away from me and goes off alone, as if there existed 
something in my words or manner that he could not 
reconcile himself to. What is it, dear Mra. Ransom, 
that lies between my father and his child ?” 

“I should say,” answered Woodworth, thoughtfully, 
“that it was a memory of something he has loved and 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 


205 


lost. Was your father very much attached to your 
mother, Gillian ? I mean, did he regar4 her with more 
than ordinary love 

“ Indeed I think so, and the more because he seldom 
mentions her. But how could he help it ? You should 
only hear Uncle Daniel when he talks of her. Oh, if she 
had only lived, I should have loved her entirely with my 
whole heart, as I love you, Mrs. Ransom. I know that 
she was a woman to worship — to be proud- of — for once 
my father told me so.” 

Mrs. Ransom sat perfectly still, looking into the dis- 
tance. When Gillian uttered the last words, she rose 
and walked toward the river, as if some thing on the 
shore had caught her attention ; but half-way down she 
paused and gathered some sweetbriar, which she brought 
back with her and quietly divided between the lovers. 

“ You were speaking of your father,” she said. “ What 
will he think of the pledge you have just given, Gillian .? 
Remember you are an only child, and the heiress of great 
wealth.” * 

My father loves me, and he does not care for any 
thing else,” said Gillian, crimson with dread that there 
was something in Mrs. Ransom’s words which might 
wound the sensitive pride of her lover. “ There are 
things that he respects more than wealth, and that is not 
wanting where genius exists. You do not know my 
father, Mrs. Ransom, if you think that the ability to earn 
fame, the energy which has earned it, will not meet even 
his ambition.” 

Woodworth sat watching her embarrassment, and 
smiled when it broke into enthusiasm. He was really too 
proud at heart to think of Mr, Bentley’s wealth, either 
as an incentive or impediment to his suit with the heiress. 


206 


£ 

THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 

So long as she possessed refinement, education, and those 
qualities that ‘Go«ld awake a heart not easily touched like 
his, he had thought of nothing else. With a just appre- 
ciation of the position which his own self-directed genius 
had already won, it never struck him to feel any inequality 
which property could produce. Feeling himself a fair 
match for Mr. Bentley’s daughter, he had frankly offered 
himself, and as frankly been accepted. He had visited at 
Mr. Bentley’s^house, and knew himself to be a favorite 
with its master, who, unlike the lower class of million- 
aires, was a man of fine taste and unusual erudition. 
That a character like Mrs. Ransom’s would object to him 
as a son-in-law had never for a moment entered into his 
calculations. 

With, Gillian herself, he had been humble as true affec- 
tion can make a proud man. Her youth and her singular 
attractiveness, compared to his riper years and those 
harsher traits that fasten on a man who works his way to 
position, impressed him almost with hopelessness. Had 
any one told him that there was a woman in the land 
whose position entitled her to look down upon him, he 
would have laughed in derision. But he gave to Gillian’s 
bright character what a queen would have failed to win 
front him — the homage of a profound respect for her 
womanliness, and of a great love that would have left him 
bankrupt had she proved unworthy. 

“And have you no fear that Mr. Bentley may refuse you 
his daughter?” said Mrs. Ransom, pressing the subject 
home with remarkable pertinacity, as if she had resolved 
to punish them for a moment’s forgetfulness of a father’s 
fight. “ Men like him do not give up their daughters to 
the first person who asks. He will be taken by surprise.” 

‘^JSTow you- are getting unamiable,” said Woodworth, 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 


207 


Brailing a little constrainedly. “ It is the first time that I 
ever knew Mrs. Ransom fling shadows on a bright hour.” 

‘‘And have I been so cruel said Julia, with a quiver 
of the lip. “ Well, well, I was but thinking how little a 
parent has of power or control over the destiny of a grown- 
up child.” 

“ But have you any reason to think that Mr, Bentley 
will disapprove of the feelings to which you are the sole 
confidante inquired Woodworth, now really anxious. 
“ Have you seen him ? Are there any grounds for sup- 
posing that he has other plans 

“Do not be so impetuous, my friend,” she replied, 
smiling. “ I have no reason on earth for what I have 
said. Nothing but over-anxiety, and a little unaccount- 
able nervousness, which makes me seem cross when I 
really am quite the contrary. As for Mr. Bentley, I have 
not yet had the honor of an introduction to him, as this 
dear girl can tell you.” 

“ But it is not his fault,” said Gillian, promptly. “ I 
am sure he has been anxious enough to know you, Mrs. 
Ransom ; only it has happened that when he called you 
have been absent or indisposed. But now I am deter- 
mined to bring the two people together I love best.” Here 
she caught Woodworth’s glance, and shook her head 
lightly as if to scatter the flood of crimson that rushed 
over her face. “You see — ^you see. Well, really this 
was my entire business here. My father has decided that 
we are to give a great party, something very superb, 
which is to honor the introduction of his graceless child 
into your metropolitan society. You have no idea how 
many really nice persons have called upon us, and offered 
all sorts of civilities, since we opened the house ; so we 
are sure to have a crush of people. A dozen ladies of the. 


208 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 


first position have offered to keep me in countenance, so I 
have no lack of chaperones, but I want something more 
than that : my heart wants a true friend to lean on. So 
the moment this idea of a chaperone was mentioned, I 
thought of you and drove over at once.” 

“And your father ?” said Mrs. Ransom. 

“ Oh, he was delighted ; offered to come with me and 
press the matter, but somehow the fates are against me 
when he attempts to gain admission to your paradise, and 
I ventured alone.” 

“ Thank you for it,” whispered Woodworth, softly. “ I 
had a feeling that you would be here at this hour, and alone.” 

Gillian answered something in a low voice ; but her 
eyes followed Mrs. Ransom, who had moved away, appa- 
rently attracted by the manoeuvring of a sloop that was 
tacking up the river. 

Gillian and Woodworth walked toward her, for the 
generous girl had her heart in the subject under discus- 
sion, and was eager for a reply. 

“ Oh, my dear madam, do not turn away, for that looks 
like a refusal to help me preside over this formidable 
party, and I shall never get along without you,” she said, 
caressingly. “ Surely I have asked nothing that should 
make you so grave.” 

“ Nothing, dear child, that is not both kind and flatter- 
ing ; but I seldom go into fashionable society, or indeed 
anywhere outside of my own little knot of friends.” 

“ But you will not really refuse me ?” cried Gillian, dis- 
tressed. “Oh, Mr. Woodworth, help me to persuade 
her ; tell her that I am, at any rate, half an orphan, and 
have no mother to stand by me on this occasion, which 
will be a very trying one ; for though I seem so reckless 
and self-sustained, it isn’t real courage, I assure you — only 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 209 

a trembling sort of bravado. Persuade her ; do, for her 
forehead is cloudy yet.” 

Mrs. Ransom turned suddenly with one of those lumi- 
nous smiles on her face, which always won smiles in 
return. 

“ No, Gillian,” she said, “ you must not ask that ; no 
person living can interpose between us. We are friends, 
sw-orn friends remember ; and even Woodworth, highly as 
I prize him, would wrong that friendship in urging a thing 
which I had forced myself to deny you.” 

“ But you will not deny me ?” 

“ Dear, dear child, give me a little time : remember this 
is a severe ordeal you propose for a woman who has kept 
out of the world so long, and I too am a sort of coward 
in social gatherings of this kind where so many will be 
strangers.” 

“ ‘ Strangers !’ No, indeed, our guests are not so ignorant 
as that; you are one, dear lady, whose name tells a history. 
It will- be a proud day for my father when he presents you 
as the dearest and most honored friend of his child ; as for 
me, I shall only feel indignant if they do not all worship 
you for yourself as well as your books.” 

“ My dear, dear child !” Julia broke off and choked 
back a sob. “ There, there, give me a little time, if it is 
only to think about the dress ; one must be very magnifi- 
cent, you know.” 

“ Yes, yes, I have thought that all over ; of course, you 
must be superb, something grand and queenly ; black vel- 
vet or crimson.” 

'' What, and the roses in bloom ?” 

‘‘ Oh, I had forgotten : you see how little I am to be 
trusted. Well, black lace then, with some of these same 
roses in your hair and on your bosom.” 

13 


210 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 


The young girl was so animated, the color came and 
went so brightly on her face, that Julia became interested 
in spite of herself ; to own the truth, a strong desire 
sprang up in her heart to attend this party. According to 
her old habit she turned away and walked alone, evidently 
under considerable excitement. Directly she came back 
more quietly. 

“ But you have an aunt : how will she like this intru- 
sion of a stranger into your household ?” 

“ What, Aunt Hetty ? Why she would drop down at 
the very thought of standing by my side on an occasion 
like that. You have no idea what a timid, nervous little 
thing she is. The very sight of a stranger sets her to 
trembling : it is quite painful to see how she suffers.” 

“And this is all the companion you have ?” 

“ Not quite ; but then my cousin is scarcely a year older 
than myself, and has been brought up in the country, so 
that you would be doing her a charity also, for her only 
female protector just now is an old colored woman, who 
insists on teaching the proprieties of fashionable life to us 
both. I wish you could see Dinah in her glory, she is 
such a character !” 

“Well, well! Let us hold a consultation. Suppose 
you turn this affair into a fancy ball. What say you, Mr. 
Woodworth ?” 

“Just the thing. I thought you would suggest some- 
thing of this kind ; a mere party filled up with dancing, 
flirting, eating and drinking, is at all times a bore.” 

“A fancy ball !” cried Gillian, sparkling with delight. 
“And you really will take a part ? and you, Mr. Wood- 
worth ?” 

“Now that I am invited — yes.” 

“And you, Mrs Ransom ?” 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 


211 


** I thiok — yes, I will go.” 

“Oh, you are so good ; and I can tell papa that it is 
all settled. And now about the characters.” 

“For me,” said Mrs. Ransom, “let it be something 
grave and quiet, say a nun or sister of charity.” 

“ No, no,” cried Gillian, “ that will never do. Let it be 
something stately.” 

“ Well, be it so. A lady of Louis the Fifteenth’s court, 
with powder, patches and brocade. Will that do ?” 

Mrs. Ransom spoke thoughtfully, and with but little of 
the animation which the subject might be expected to pro- 
duce. She gave so much importance to the character she 
was to assume that both Gillian and Woodworth were 
surprised. 

“And you,” said Woodworth, addressing Gillian, “ what 
is your character to be ?” 

He spoke in a low voice, and Gillian answered him 
under her breath. , 

“Any thing that you choose I” 

His face flushed with pleasure. 

“ Let it be Aurora, then, for without you my days would 
be all darkness. ” 

The eyes which she lifted to his beamed with an ex- 
pression so beautiful that his heart swelled, and the very 
breath he drew came laden with exquisite joy. 

They stood together silent and happy. Mrs. Ransom 
had left them suddenly and was walking toward the house. 
In her presence they could talk on general subjects, but 
now excess of feeling struck them mute ; but it was a 
silence so delicious that neither had a wish to break it. 
At last Gillian drew a deep breath, and reaching forth her 
hand lifted her heavenly face to his. 


212 THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 

“ Follow her,” she said. “ Have I been selfish in urging 
her to join us ?” 

“Selfish — no. It is better that she should appear in 
society : no woman living can grace it so well.” 

“ Persuade her of this : and now go.” 

^^Do you weary of me ?” 

“ Weary ! how can you think it ? But all this makes 
me dizzy. I will return home without entering the house 
again.” 

“ And to-morrow ?” 

“ To-morrow, come to my father.” 

“ And after that ? Ah, Gillian, this happiness terrifies 
me ; my life seems too full of wealth, God bless you 
forever and ever, for giving me this one hour.” 

She drew toward him as a bird of paradise moves in 
the sunshine. Her eyes shone with love ; her mouth 
trembled like a cherry when the bird that seeks it is near. 
A goddess smitten with human affections might have 
looked like Gillian, and been regal still. It is only when 
love imbues a proud nature like hers with tenderness, that 
we know how grand a passion it is. Woodworth folded 
his arm around her waist and drew her to his side. 

“ Gillian, are you happy ?” 

“ Very happy !” 

The words died like fragrance on her lips. . He stooped 
down and gathered them in kisses. 

“ To-morrow I will ask you of your father, Gillian. Till 
then I shall doubt the reality of this happiness ; I begin 
to tremble now with a fear of losing you. Promise, Gil- 
lian — promise to love me forever.” 

“ Forever and ever !” she murmured. 

“ Now let me go with you to the carriage.” 

“ No, no, leave me a little time alone !” 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 


213 


He saw that she was faint with emotion, and taking 
compassion on her went away ; not into the house, for he 
too wished for solitude, but through the grounds into the 
high road, down which he walked toward the city. 

Scarcely an hour had passed since Gillian entered the 
house, whose balconies were visible from where she sat 
— one little hour and her whole life had changed. She 
had for the first time in her existence listened willingly to 
the passionate love of a strong man — she had stepped 
upon that ledge of rocks a free woman, and now she was 
bound in every fibre of her heart, in every wish of her 
being. The seal of a holy compact burned on her lips, 
the passionate consciousness of it thrilled her through and 
through. She sat down and wept like a little child, when 
his last footstep died on the turf. But the tears she shed 
were like April rain, and a blossom sprung up in her 
heart with every drop. 

Mrs. Ransom saw her from the window, but forbore 
to disturb the dreamy quiet into which she had fallen. 
Indeed she had no wish to move — hardly the power, for 
the deep feelings of her own nature were in a tumult. 
She was greatly disturbed by the events of that morning, 
and while Gillian wept tears of happiness, hard, painful 
drops gathered in Julia’s eyes. Thus smitten by a cold 
feeling of desolation, she went into her chamber and shut 
the door. 

A few minutes after she disappeared, Michael Hurst 
came, unannounced, through the front door, which had 
been left ajar, and entering the library looked around for its 
usual occupant. '' 

“ iS’ot here,” he muttered ; “ I dare say she saw me 
coming and took herself out of the way. Your poetess 
hates a drain on the purse as much as common mortals, 


214 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL 


and I suppose she fancies I’m on that tack again. By 
Jove, she’ll soon find out that I’m striking for higher 
stakes than that. She must help me, too, or the game 
will be a difficult one to play, for the girl is as proud as 
Lucifer, and unmanageable as a wild bird ; but with 
madam’s help all will be easy enough. After all she is a 
wonderful woman, so earnest and prompt, her thoughts 
all poetry, her judgment clear and practical. But then 
such women will think their own thoughts and act their 
own acts, there is the mischief of it ; I hardly dare con- 
fide in her yet, not till I have seen this proud girl and 
tried her temper on the subject. But then how can I see 
this Gillian alone ? She is so hedged in with her pride 
of station that, with the poor old maid ready to help 
me in any thing, with free access to the house, backed by 
Lawrence with the father, I have not in two months been 
able to get one moment of private conversation with her. 
By Jove, there she is now, and alone !” 

The young man sprang from his seat as he uttered these 
last words, and clearing the veranda with a bound made 
his way toward the ledge where Gillian was sitting. 

She was too busy with her own pleasant thoughts.to re- 
mark his approach ; and he, with that instinctive respect 
which forces itself on the most depraved when in the 
presence of a noble woman, curbed his headlong progress, 
and almost held his breath when he drew near her. 

She was stooping to pick up the roses that had fallen 
upon the moss, when her heart first leaped to the offered 
love of Woodworth. Every bud and leaf was precious 
to her now ; and she gathered them up reverently, as if 
they had been scattered on a sacred altar. For all her 
wealth she would not have parted with the smallest spray 
clasped in those trembling hands. 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 


215 


4 


“ Miss Bentley I” 

Gillian started — clasped her fingers tighter about the 
roses, and turning her face over one shoulder, saw with 
impatience that young Hurst stood upon the very moss 
which was still imprinted by the feet of her accepted 
lover. 

2^ow this man had rendered himself odious to the young 
girl : first, by connecting himself wjth the only misunder- 
standing that she had ever experienced with her aunt; 
and again, from the manner in which he had presumed on 
the partiality of that lady to force himself into familiar 
relations with the family. True, the introduction and in- 
dorsement of Mr. Lawrence, a man of high standing both 
in the commercial and social world, had reconciled Mr. 
Bentley to the acquaintance. But Gillian shrunk from it 
with the quick intuition of a delicate nature. In his man- 
ner, and in the words which he sometimes found an op- 
portunity of forcing upon her, there was an attempt at 
gallantry which irritated her pride. She could under- 
stand the petty manoeuvres by which he had sought to in- 
gratiate himself into her favor, and held them in gentle 
contempt. 

It was with a sort of terror that, seeing him so near, 
she arose quickly, and looked around for a path by which 
she might descend the ledge of rocks. 

“ Miss Bentley, do not seek to avoid me so pointedly. 
The happiness of finding you alone for one moment has, 
perhaps, made me over-bold ; but, when the heart is full 
of one great wish it forgets ceremony. Don’t go ! Don’t 
turn that sweet face away I Are you afraid of me ?” 

The quick pride sparkled up from Gillian’s heart to her 
eyes. 

“Afraid ! No, indeed. What is there for me to fear 


216 


THE DOUBLE PKOPOSAL. 


from your presence, Mr. Hurst ? You came abruptly, and 
I was startled a little — that is all. ” 

“ Oh, if you did but know how I have watched and 
prayed for thL hour I” 

“And why, Mr. Hurst ? I have seen you almost every 
day for a month; certainly every day since my cousin, 
Miss Hart, came to the city.” 

He looked at her keenly. Had he, indeed, succeeded 
in making her jealous by his flirtation with the pretty 
country-girl ? Surely that brilliant eye and the curve of 
her haughty lip was a proof of feminine pique that could 
spring from no other cause. 

He drew close to Gillian, but she stepped haughtily 
back and shielded her roses from his outstretched hand 
as if it had been a serpent attempting to creep over 
them. 

“And did you really think my attention to the pretty 
rustic sprang from any thing but a wish to be near you ?” 
he said, with infinite humility and tenderness in his voice. 
“ You must have seen how entirely my whole heart has 
been yours since the first time that I saw you in that library 
yonder. Miss Bentley. Oh, Gillian, no man ever adored 
a woman as I worship you. Have compassion on me, and 
listen kindly for this once : I know that I am not your 
equal, as far as appearances are concerned ; but circum- 
stances may bring us nearer to a level — nay, by heavens I 
they shall I” 

“ Mr. Hurst, this is wild — worse, it is almost insulting I 
What, in my whole conduct, has warranted this address ?” 

She turned, and attempted to pass him ; but he stood 
firm, blocking her progress. 

“ There is no insult in an honest expression of love,” he 
said, looking almost as haughty as herself. “I have a 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 217 

right to be heard, and to demand a civil answer, at least. 
Naj, do not rain down so much scorn from those beauti- 
ful eyes ! In this country there exist no social distinctions 
which energy and a strong will cannot overcome. You 
have money, intellect, beauty. I am neither hideous nor a 
fool. As for wealth, that is easily earned, and I am as 
likely to obtain it as another. Why, then, should you look 
as if a serf were addressing you 

There was truth in his words, and Gillian felt that her 
impulsive pride had given him an excuse for prolonging 
the conversation. She simply moved away from the spot 
which his presence seemed to desecrate, and, signifying 
by a bend of her head that he might follow, walked toward 
the river. There she found an iron garden-chair, and sat 
down, while he stood before her, pale with internal rage 
at her coolness, and with drops of perspiration starting to 
his forehead. 

She looked up, quietly, and said, in her usual clear 
voice, 

“ Now, Mr. Hurst, I will listen. You say justly the 
offer of an honest heart can never be considered as an in- 
sult. You took me by surprise. I beg your pardon P’ 

The color came up to his face ; he was almost in tears, 
for he had told the truth. With all the force of his good 
and evil passions he loved the young girl before him. He 
loved her, and knew that from her composure and humility 
there was less to hope than from the angry pride with 
which she at first received him. His voice was broken, 
and there was genuine feeling in his words as he spoke 
again. 

“ I thank you. Miss Bentley, for this kindness ; yet it 
only gives me an opportunity of repeating more respect- 
fully what I have already said. I love you — with all my 


218 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 


soul and strength I love you ! Have you nothing to give 
in return to a poor fellow who lays all that he has, or 
hopes for, at your feet 

Gillian was troubled. Her pure forehead gathered to- 
gether in a cloud. She thought how terrible a thing it 
must be to love without return, and her heart thrilled with 
compassion for a man she could not even like. 

“No,” she said, with sweet humility, “it would be 
cruel and wrong to mislead you. I have no feelings that 
could answer to those you offer. In my whole life I have 
never regarded you with a thought of love. At this mo- 
ment you stand higher in my esteem than ever, but it is 
sorrow, regret, I will not say compassion, that I feel — not 
love I Forgive me — do forgive me, if what I say is pain- 
ful ; but I can only ask you to forget all this, and let us 
never meet again.” 

He stood for a moment, gazing upon her face ; his own 
was pale as death — pale and stormy with a strife of pas- 
sions. 

“No!” he said, at last, “we shall meet again, and 
often. The stake between us two is heavy, and we must 
not play out our game at a sitting ; one thing is certain : 
you and I must be lovers, or enemies ; married, or one of 
us ruined. But your rejection need not be final. I will 
not take it as such for your own sake — for your father’s 
sake 1” 

“ Stay !” cried Gillian, lifting her head, and sweeping 
by him like a goddess, “ I have no patience to listen far- 
ther; yonder is Mrs. Ransom on the veranda.” 

“Beware, Miss Bentley, how you make that woman 
your confidante 1” he persisted, following her. 

She turned upon him with all the pride of her superb 
nature. 


THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL. 


219 


“ Have no fear, sir, that I shall not conceal the degra- 
dation of this interview.” 

The young man fairly ground his teeth in the deadly 
rage that seized upon him ; but she swept forward to- 
ward the verandah, where Mrs. Ransom was waiting for 
her, and, after a few words, went hurriedly to her car- 
riage. 

Those few words were very simple and unimportant, 
but they had a terrible influence on the future ; not in 
themselves, but from the honorable secrecy which Gillian 
felt bound to maintain regarding the proposal which had 
been forced upon her. 

When Mrs. Ransom inquired, with evident anxiety, 
what young Hurst had been talking of so earnestly, Gil- 
lian answered, vaguely : 

“ Oh, it was a private affair of his own, in which he 

. m 

wanted my co-operation.” 

“ Which you refused ?” 

“ Of course, dear lady. What can that man and I have 
in common ? — nothing, I am quite sure. But, yourself, 
what has happened to distress you ?” 

“ Nothing ; but, Gillian, the glow of happiness has all 
fled from your face.” 

Gillian laid one hand on her heart, and answered, with 
a beautiful smile, 

“But it is here yet. He frighted away my dreams, but 
not this holy reality.” 

The carriage drove away. Mrs. Ransom followed it 
with a long, wistful look, and entered her library again. 
Here she had expected to find Michael, but the room was 
empty, and there was no trace of him in the grounds. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 


MICHAEL HURST CHANGES HIS LODGINGS. 

Not three hours after the interview we have described 
at the Bloomingdale Cottage, Michael Hurst presented 
himself at the little house in the vicinity of Chatham 
Square, a place he had visited frequently of late, much to 
the satisfaction of the two old ladies, who were always 
charmed into especial good nature by his presence. In- 
deed, there was a little jealousy between the ancient 
dames on his account; and Mrs. Nicholson was con- 
stantly making little devices to meet him in the hall and 
hold a few words with him in private before he entered to 
the presence of the elder lady. Mrs. Frost was greatly 
scandalized by these flirty proceedings, and frequently 
took her dependent to task on the subject. Mrs. Nichol- 
son felt this rather as a compliment than otherwise. It 
was not every old lady of seventy odd who could boast 
of reprimands for receiving too much attention from a 
handsome young fellow like Hurst. 

Then there was Hetty Hart, Mrs. Frost’s niece, who 
always happened to time her visits with that of the young 
man, which Mrs. Frost considered very indecorous indeed. 

Once, and this Mrs. Nicholson told to Mrs. Frost, as a 
great secret, she had opened the parlor door suddenly, 
just to see if Miss Hetty Hart had gone, when she de- 
tected that lady at the end of the hall, putting some 
220 


CHANGES HIS LODGINGS. 221 

bank-bills into Michael’s hand. It had troubled her 
greatly to make out where the money came from ; but 
afterward she learned, from Martha Hart, that Aunt 
Hetty had sold a meadow lot, inherited from her own 
mother, and no doubt she was instructing Hurst to put 
the money out at interest. In fact Hetty had hinted as 
much, when the subject was touched upon by Mrs. Frost, 
who felt it to be her duty to regulate these matters among 
the young people, and see that the reputation of her house 
did not suffer by Hurst’s frequent visits there. 

On the day in question the two old ladies had dined, 
and Mrs. Nicholson was busy putting away the dinner- 
dishes in a small corner cupboard. First she washed two 
cups and saucers in an old-fashioned pewter basin, which 
had belonged to Mrs. Frost’s mother before the Revolu- 
tion ; then followed a couple of china pie-plates, with two 
knives and forks. At last she disposed of a vegetable 
dish in which Mrs. Frost had covered up four cold pota- 
%)es, which she gave Mary Nicholson especial directions 
to slice up and fry for dinner the next day. With the 
exception of this household order, Mrs. Nicholson had not 
heard the sound of Mrs. Frost’s voice that day ; for, hav- 
ing nothing on earth to talk about, the old lady — -unlike 
some others we could mention — kept silence severely. 

Thus Mrs. Nicholson, who was naturally a social old 
lady, felt even the clatter of the saucers and plates as 
some sort of company, and continued her occupation as 
long as possible. But work tardily as she would, the 
clearing of that small dinner-table must terminate. 

At last, Mrs. Nicholson seated herself at the window, 
and, putting on her spectacles, prepared to mend a stock- 
ing which she had taken up earlier in the day. In and 
out went that bright darning-needle stitch, stitch, up and 


222 


CHANGES HIS LODGINGS. 


down, forming a basket-work of threads, till at last one 
vigorous pull settled a row of stitches in its place, and she 
commenced over again. 

The monotony made her stolid, and she was on the 
verge of a nap, when Mrs. Frost rose up in her chair 
and asked “ if she had been dreaming through her after- 
dinner sleep, or if somebody had really said that Mr. 
Bentley was going to give a great party, .and that Daniel 
Hart’s only daughter had been sent for ?” 

Mrs. Nicholson brightened up at this opening for a little 
gossip, and replied, “ That it was no dream, but the living 
truth. Hetty Hart had told them all about it the last 
time she was at the house ; and more than that, Michael 
Hurst had been invited — indeed Mr. Bentley, who 
thought the world and all of Michael, had given the 
invitation with his own lips. Mr. Hurst was going be- 
yond a doubt ; for he had asked her to do up a fine shirt 
and some collars for him, the very last time he was at the 
house.” • 

Mrs. Frost sat upright in her chair while all this in- 
formation was innocently imparted by Mary Nicholson, a 
sure sign that she was interested and not well pleased. 
She remained quiet till the collars were mentioned, and 
then her virtuous reprehension broke loose. 

“ Mary Nicholson, Mary Nicholson, will you never ar- 
rive at years of discretion, or are you immoral at heart ? 
I want to know that ! Here we are, two lone women, 
with our yards overlooked by ever so many windows, 
and you talk of hanging up fine shirts and collars with 
my wash ; what will the world think of proceedings like 
that ? I shouldn’t wonder if we have the police magis- 
trates inquiring after our goings-on next. Mary Nichol- 
son — Mary Nicholson, if you have no respect for your own 


CHANGES HIS LODGINGS. 223 


reputation, remember that I have a character to lose, and 
ain’t going to have it ruined by men’s garments flaunting 
in my yard. Why the very clothes-pins would be scared 
off the lines. I blush for you, Mary Nicholson.” 

If Mrs. Frost spoke the truth, two old women were 
blushing at once, for Mary Nicholson become red through 
all her wrinkles, and a tear stole softly down from under 
her spectacles. 

“ I’m sure I didn’t mean any harm,” she said, quite 
meekly ; “and I know that Mr. Hurst didn’t.” 

“ Mr. Hurst — of course he didn’t ! Such things never 
enter a young man’s head till some forward young crea- 
ture brings up the idea. Mary Nicholson, I’ll be bound 
you offered to wash out those things first ; now own up 
and shame the Evil One that tempted you.” 

“ I — I don’t just remember how it came about, Mrs. 
Frost, but I’m sure it wasn’t him,” murmured Mrs. 
Nicholson, wiping her eyes with the stocking she was 
darning. “If there is any blame, of course it belongs 
to me.” 

“And that was what you were slipping the square of 
yellow soap into your pocket for when I sent you to the 
closet yesterday. I declare, Mary Nicholson, if it wasn’t 
for leaving you alone in the world with no one to look 
after your ways, I wouldn’t keep you in this house another 
night. Yellow soap and collars indeed !” 

Mrs. Nicholson looked a good deal startled, and her 
hand shook till the darning-needle went quite astray, but 
she maintained an humble silence ; and Mrs. Frost, having 
relieved her mind, subsided into her chair and fell asleep 
with a scowl on her face. 

Half an hour went by. The old woman of ninety hung 
her head in sullen sleep ; and the old woman of seventy 


« 

224 CHANGES HIS LODGINGS. 

odd wept over her indiscretions, and wondered meekly if 
she ever would learn how to behave ; while her needle 
went in and out monotonously as before. 

A blow on the street-knocker started the one from her 
doze, and the other from her work. 

“ It is his knock, I’m sure,” faltered Mrs. Nicholson, 
looking timidly at her mentor. 

** Then I will myself open the door ; keep your seat, 
Mary Nicholson, and don’t look so fluttered. The young 
gentleman’s visit is doubtless to me ; there is no danger 
of his making improper suggestions regarding clothes 
when I am the person to be consulted.” 

“Ah, Mrs. Frost, you have grown quite young again, 
and come down-stairs like a girl,” cried young Hurst, with 
forced gayety. “ My dear madam, take my arm : you will 
not find it quite so easy to mount alone. There, now, fancy 
me your son and lean heavily.” 

Mrs. Frost did lean heavily, and her old face looked the 
younger by ten years from a consciousness of his care 
about her. So, having triumphed over Mary Nicholson 
by presenting herself leaning on the arm of her protege, 
the virtuous indignation that had burned within her died 
out. She forbore to continue her lecture in the presence 
of the young man, who was rather surprised by the sub- 
dued reception which Mrs. Nicholson gave him. 

“And you have not been ill, did you say that, my dear 
grandmother, nor frightened at any thing, and they have 
distressed me for nothing ? Indeed I never should have 
forgiven myself. In fact, the pain and self-reproach has 
been so great that I will not run the chance of suffering 
it again. Grandmother — Mrs. Nicholson, you must find 
me a bed somewhere, or I shall never be content about 
3^ou.” 


% 

CHANGES HIS LODGINGS. 


Mrs. Nicholson gave a little start of horror; and Mn. 
Frost’s head began to vibrate like a pendulum. \ 

bed!” ejaculated Mrs. Frost. ‘‘A bed!” echoed 
Mrs. Nicholson. 

“ Yes ; why not ? To own the truth, for it is useless 
attempting to deceive you even for your own good, 
there has been a murder and robbery within the week, 
close in this neighborhood. They have quite terrified me ; 
two elderly ladies living together both murdered in their 
beds as you might have been. Indeed, my dear grand- 
mother, 1 cannot leave you unprotected at night after that. 
Don’t put yurself out ; any thing will do for me.” 

'‘‘T^ere is the little bedroom off the hall,” suggested 
Mrs. Nicholson, timidly; but she was silenced by the 
indignant voice of Mrs. Frost. 

“ Mary Nicholson I The hall bedroom, and on this 
story ! Will you never arrive at years of discretion ?” 

“ No, no. Let it be my old room in the attic ; nothing 
else would seem like home. I will be no trouble, but take 
my meals out.” 

“And your w'ashing ?” said Mrs. Frost, anxiously. 

“ Oh, that of course. I only came for protection, not 
to encumber you with any thing. If Mrs. Nicholson can 
manage to make my bed and bring up a little water once 
a day, it will be all I desire.” 

Mrs. Nicholson looked up well pleased with the idea of 
being made useful ; but Mrs. Frost tore her satisfaction 
up at the roots. 

“ No, Mr. Hurst, you must allow me to judge of what 
is proper in my own house. Mary Nicholson is too 
young.” 

“ You, my dear grandmother I indeed you shall do no 
such thing.” 

14 


2^6 


Gillian’s confession. 


Mrs. Frost arose in her seat, looked steadily first at 
Hurst, then at the drooping face of her companion. 

“Michael Hurst, has there been a private understand- 
ing between you and Mary JN’icholson about yoiff Coming 
here ? Answer me that.” 

“A private understanding I No, upon my honor. 
What an idea !” 

“ Then you can come, Michael.” 

Michael cast a side glance at Mrs. Nicholson. Was it 
possible that there really was some understanding between 
them ? 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Gillian’s confession. 

Gillian and her father sat together in the library, a 
large room opening from the front vestibule, and forming 
one of a suit of apartments that might have befitted a 
palace, the ceilings were so high, and the fresco pictures 
upon them so exquisite as works of art. 

Bookcases of dark wood, heavily carved, occupied all 
those spaces of the wall not broken by the windows on 
one side, and a broad bay which occupied a large portion 
of the front. These bookcases were surmounted by 
bronze busts of the great poets and statesmen that had 
left the best part of their lives, the thought which never 
perishes, in the richly bound volumes that gleamed 
through those crystal doors. . The tall windows between 
were draped to the floor with curtains of heavy crimson 



silk, which, drawn back or closed by thick cords and tas- 
sels, excluded, or let in the light, as the inmates of that 
room might desire cheerfulness or solitude. In the recess 
of the bifJad bay-window stood an elaborately carved, 
black marble table, polished like a mirror ; an easy-chair 
and a richly cushioned bench, which swept round the 
lower woodwork of the window, offering a luxurious seat 
to any one who loved the gorgeous twilight of the place. 
Though the window itself was of pure plate-glass, the 
inner sashes, gorgeously stained with amber, crimson and 
purple, gave an air of indescribable magnificence to the 
whole room ^whenever they were closed over the pure 
light which shone through the outer glass. This hap- 
penedflhery frequently, for at times Mr; Bentley seemed 
to shrink from the broad day, and seek the gloom of that 
sumptuous library, as a wounded stag loves the deep 
hemlock shade. 

Sometimes, too, Gillian, the bright, happy Gillian, came 
like a tropical bird, and indulged her sweet reveries in 
this rich twilight. Now that her soul was brimful of 
love — when she knew that answering love flowed back 
upon her as honey-dew falls upon the leaves — she would 
gather herself into this silken nest and think over and 
over again the sweet words he had uttered — the glances 
that had made every nerve in her frame thrill, and wonder, 
with pleasant egotism, if any human being were ever so 
happy before. 

It was broad day out of doors, but a luxurious twilight 
reigned within. Gillian sat upon the silken cushions, 
dreaming over her sweet fancies ; and Mr. Bentley leaned 
back in the easy-chair close by, reading, or seeming to 
read, for a leaf of the stained blind was folded back, and 


228 


GILLIAN’S CONFESSION. 

a Stream of pure light fell over him and made a path far 
out on the carpet beyond. 

He had forgotten that Gillian was in the room, his 
reverie was so deep — forgotten every thing in tlie intense 
interest excited by the book, which began to tremble in 
his hand, while a haze crept over his eyes, and he found 
himself, all at once, unable to distinguish the print, which 
floated before him like the network of a cobweb. 

The slow motion of one hand drawn across his eyes, 
and a heavy sigh aroused Gillian, 

“ What is it, father V' she said, sitting upright, and 
smiling upon him as an infant awakes in the morning. 

What is it that makes you sigh so heavily, as if ^t were 
sorrow, not joy, which holds your breath 

Bentley answered her look and her smile, but it was 
winter meeting spring. In Mr. Bentley’s smile there was 
a quivering sadness that made the heart stand still ; in 
hers, a joy that made it leap. 

“ Is it the book ?” she said, rising and casting a glance 
over his shoulder. “Ah, I see — one of Mrs. Ransom’s 
novels. No wonder you are sad, papa. I have cried 
myself ill over those very pages. What power, what 
passion she throws into every thing, and yet her pathos 
is so tender, like her voice when she pleads for something 1 
Oh, papa, I wish you could hear her talk !” 

“ Like this ? Does she talk like this ?” said Bentley, 
laying his slender hand on the open page of the book. 

“At times, when she is excited or sad ; for I do believe 
this lady writes, as she talks, from unstudied impulse ; 
but usually she is gay, almost ‘joyful ; I think she 
talks nonsense best of all. I never saw exactly such a 
woman.” 

“ But you like her ?” 


Gillian’s confession 229 

“ Oh, yes I so much ! It seems to me as if I never 
really loved till she taught me how.” 

“Ah I” said Bentley, closing the book and looking search- 
ingly into the glowing face that bent over him, “ this 
acquaintance has sprung into friendship very suddenly. 

It is not often that a girl of little more than seventeen 
seeks a companion so much her elder ; for the author of 
this cannot be young : such power and finish renders the 
idea impossible.” 

“Yes, papa, but you know I have been always with 
persons older than myself, and like them best. Young 
girls are so — so ” 

“ Well ?” 

“ So full of themselves they will not take time to think ' 
of others. I never saw a person — a lady I mean — young 
or old, who comprehended all I wished or felt till Mrs. 
Ransom permitted me to visit her.” 

“ Permitted I Why, Gillian, you are growing humble. 

It was but yesterday you spoke of visiting Mrs. Law- 
rence, one of the most distinguished ladies of the fash- 
ionable world, with something almost like contempt.” 

“ Oh, papa, not that. I was only careless, impatient 
at the worst ; but Mrs. Lawrence is only a rich, fashion- 
able woman, who thinks herself a good judge of style, 
and talks eternally about her carriage-horses, is delighted 
when she is mistaken for a Frenchwoman, and wonders 
why any country can be so vulgar as to have ‘ Yankee 
Doodle’ for a national air. Indeed, papa, I don’t like 
that kind of person at all. ” 

“ Well, well, I am not asking you to like her. She is 
i rather too advanced for a companion to my Gillian. But 
' is there no young lady ?” 

“None but Cousin Martha Hart that I care a rose-leaf 


230 


GILLIAN’S CONFESSION. 


for ; she is honest as steel, and fresh as a violet. , Indeed 
I do love Cousin Matty dearly. I intend she shall make 
a dozen conquests at our party.” 

“ But to go back where we began, Gillian ; this lady 
author, have you invited her 

“Yes, papa.” 

“And she comes, of course. I believe your first party 
is to be the rage, daughter, so we may depend on this 
lady.” 

“I don’t know,” answered Gillian, thoughtfully: “she 
promised at one time, but now rather shrinks from the 
throng that will be here.” 

A cloud came over the young girl’s face — a look of 
hesitation and distress, which her father observed. 

“Well, what is it, child? Is there any thing more 
about this lady ? She seems to have taken a strange 
hold on you.” 

Still Gillian blushed and trembled. Her eyes were 
downcast ; her lips began to quiver. 

Mr. Bentley grew anxious. Why should his child be 
so agitated ? Had this author really obtained some subtle 
power over that high nature ? Was there a secret whicli 
he did not know ? 

“ Look at me, Gillian.” 

“Well, father, I do.” 

“With your eyes — not with your soul.” 

“ With all my soul I” she answered, smiling bravely. 
“I was a coward, but it was only for a minute.” She 
did not think how difficult it would prove. “Oh, father I 
the heart should have a language for itself, to be used only 
once or twice in a lifetime.” i 

“And if you had this language at command, what would 
it reveal, Gillian ?” 


Gillian’s confession/ 


231 


Gillian sunk slowly to her knees, took her lather’s hand 
and pressed her lips to the palm. The band shook ; a 
cloud of anxiety darkened Bentley’s face. 

^ “ Gillian — Gillian, what have you done ? What does 

this mean ?” 

She lifted her face, radiant and glistening with tears ; 
her eyes were like wet periwinkles ; her mouth a rose-bud 
shaken by rain-drops. 

‘‘ Father, as my mother loved you, I — I ” 

He snatched his hand away, and shook her off as if she 
had been a viper. His face was ashen white, and he shrunk 
together chilly and hoarse. 

Love as your mother loved me I Girl — girl, what 
demon put those words into your mouth ?” 

She staggered back, clasping her hands. 

“ Father I” 

He struggled with himself stoutly. You could see the 
veins swell on his forehead, and the great drops gather 
there. 

“ Speak on, Gillian, my child ; I frightened you. Some- 
thing you were ready to tell me.” 

“ Father I” said Gillian, gently, and in a low voice ; for 
she was still pale and frightened. “It is at Mrs. ^Ran- 
som’s request — indeed at her command — that I tell you 
this with my own lips, rather than wait for a stranger to 
startle, perhaps offend you with the knowledge that she 
says you should have had long ago. The gentleman is a 
friend of hers.” 

“ What gentleman, my child ?” 

His accents were mournful, his lips white. 

“^Mr. Woodworth.” 

For a moment there was silence; then Mr. Bentley 
spoke. 


^32 GILLIAN’S CONFESSION. 

“And 701 love this man ?” 

“ He is a good man, father.”, 

“And you love him ?” 

“ Forgive me, father — but I do.” 

“ Entirely, to the exclusion of every other love, of every 
other thought, with the whole might of your being ? Is 
this the love you mean ?” 

She was on her knees before him. He took her clasped 
hands between his and lifted them upward, as if enforcing 
an oath. 

“ Father, I do love him even as you say — to the exclu- 
sion of every other love, of any other thought.” 

“Better than your father — your lonely, lonely father?” 

“ Differently ; but not better.” 

“ That is wrong, Gillian, very wrong. When a woman 
loves, it should be with all her soul ; no affection must 
stand before that love. * ^o man sho uld be content jg;ith- 
out thp wholejbein^ (^ hisjwife — or is content withQU.t„it;J| 

“ Oh, father ! I dare not tell you how much I do love 
him ; my heart is breaking to speak, but cannot.” 

How beautiful she was ! how proudly modest there on 
her knees speaking of her love I 

“ But will it last ? I do not ask what the man is — that 
for another time — but will this love hold out to the end ? 
Is it pure gold ingrained into the soul, or snow ready to 
melt under a new smile ?” 

“ Oh, father ! remember I am your daughter !” 

“And hers I” 

No words can describe the passionate bitterness of these 
two syllables : they fell like heated shot from his lips— a 
fierce wrath broke over his face. Gillian stood up cold 
and white. 

“You speak of my mother !” 

m 


Gillian’s confession. 


283 


He did not answer her, but dropping his face on the 
two hands which he had clasped on the table, shook like 
a leaf. 

All the pride went out from Gillian’s heart. She drew 
close to her father, and bending down kissed his hot fore- 
head again and again, murmuring — 

“ Father, forgive me — oh ! forgive me, whatever my 
sin may be I It kills me to feel you tremble so : I never 
saw you weep before, father. What have I done ? — what 
have I done ?” 

Bentley looked up and tried to smile, but with the heavy 
drops trembling on his face, the smile was like pale light- 
ning after rain. 

“Father!” 

He looked at her, but did not speak. 

“ Father, does it pain you that I love this gentleman ? 
He is noble — an honorable man ; but I will die rather than 
see you unhappy.” 

Mr. Bentley drew her toward him, kissed her forehead, 
and said very tenderly, but with a sadness that went to 
her heart, 

“ Pain 1 No, Gillian, you never gave me pain in your 
life. I know something of this man : he is both honor- 
able and of great ability. Why should I grieve that you 
love him ? It is such qualities that should win a Bentley.” 

“ Oh, my father J” 

She could say no more. Grate'ful joy broke her voice. 
That moment she would have worshipped her father. 

“Go, my child, go now. This is one of the moments 
that sweep over one like a hurricane. Half an. hour ago 
you were my daughter — all mine. Now you belong to 
another — a stranger whom I have not seen half a dozen 
times in my life. Yon cannot pull up a wild flower by 


234 


GILLIANS CONFESSION. 


the roots without disturbing the ground ; do not think 
thus to dislodge a child from her father’s heart and leave 
no anguish behind.” 

Gillian did not speak, but obeying the motion of his 
hand went out weeping bitterly. 

Mr. Bentley walked the library, up and down, at first 
wildly, and by degrees with steadiness, till his usual calm 
demeanor came back. He was neither a weak nor selfish 
man, but this declaration had come upon him so suddenly 
that the shock was overpowering. 

He had scarcely seated himself in the chair again when 
a servant announced Mr. Woodworth, and directly that 
gentleman entered the library. Actuated by an honora- 
ble wish to deal frankly with the father of Gillian, he had 
come at once to declare all that had passed be^een them, 
and henceforth retire from his suit, or urge it under the 
parental sanction. 

No one, to have seen Mr. Bentley when he arose with 
grave courtesy to receive his visitor, would have believed 
in the storm of passion that had just swept over him. 
True, he was pale, and his eyes were heavy, but he had 
moved out of the clear light, and Woodw’orth saw nothing 
but a man of remarkable refinement, waiting to see his 
guest seated before he resumed his own position by the 
table. 

Woodworth was a proud man — too proud for that undue 
estimate of Mr. Bentley’s wealth which might have em- 
barrassed an ordinary suitor. Possessed of great talent, 
and a high position won by that talent, it never entered 
his mind to feel that any inequality existed between him 
and the millionaire. On the contrary, had he found Mr. 
Bentley of the ordinary stamp of rich men, insolent or 
purse-proud, it is just possible that the pride of genius 


GILLIAN’S CONFESSION. 235 

might have recoiled from the connection. For genius can 
ill brook the presumption of wealth, and Woodworth 
knew his own powers well enough to be sure that thej 
could win gold in the end, as they had already secured 
political position and literary fame. 

But there was no reason for distrust here. Mr. Bentley 
was not a man to think of wealth when a separation from 
his child was the question. It was to him a matter of no 
consequence whatever that Woodworth lacked the means 
of adding to his own broad possessions. Being neither 
mercenary nor capable of suspecting others of so mean a 
feeling without just cause, be waived the question of 
property altogether, just as his high-souled daughter had 
done. He did not make it important enough to feel self- 
compla(y cy that he was able to endow the man of genius 
with th^vealth he neither despised nor coveted. In this 
respect the two men were alike. It was the fair girl who 
sat in a tremor of expectation up-stairs of whom both 
thought, and for whom both acted. 

Gillian had heard the footsteps of her lover in the 
vestibule, and listened breathlessly till the library door 
closed upon him. She had no apprehension of the result 
of this visit to her father, but still her heart beat loudly, and 
her cheek flushed. They were talking of her : for the first 
time her noble father and lover were standing face to face 
in their new relations. How would they like each other ? 
How would the sensitive and retiring nature of her 
father meet the frank energy of the young man ? 

The interview was not long. She heard the library 
door open and close — a footstep, not his, for her heart did 
not leap to the sound, but stood still, expectant, sounded 
on the marble floor. It was her father who mounted the 
grand staircase and approached her own room. The 


236 


GILLIAN’S CONFESSION. 


same sad smile was on his lip — the same look of pain on 
his forehead. Gillian’s heart began to ache as she saw 
him ; for she was not one of those who could be happy 
while any thing she loved was in sorrow. The smile 
with which he addressed her was indescribably sweet. 

“ Gillian, go down : some one is waiting for you in the 
library I” 

She arose and went up to him with that exquisite 
grace which springs from deep feeling. 

“ Father,” she pleaded, bowing her stately head like a 
white lily when it thirsts for night-dew — “ father, bless 
me before I go.” 

He laid one hand on her head and blessed her with 
tears in his eyes. 

Gillian felt her own eyes fill. Seldom, in her life, had 
she seen her father weep before that day. iWras thus 
with a swell of holy tenderness at her heart that she 
went down to meet her betrothed. 

Woodworth stood within the dim room, waiting. All 
his pride was gone : the tenderness of a great love reigned 
in its place. For the first time his soul gave away to the 
ardor of its new passion ; his eyes flashed ; his lip curved 
with joyous smiles. She lost all other thoughts as her 
eyes met his and became radiant as the morning. 

They could not speak, for such love has no adequate 
language, but her hand was in his, a strong arm glided 
around her, and she felt the beating of his heart ; his lips 
fell like a honey-bee to the bloom of hers : and then they 
sat down together on the silken cushions of the great 
window, happy as the angels when they have secured a 
soul for heaven. 

As they sat thus in the sumptuous twilight the library 
door opened, and Michael Hurst stood in the gloom 


Gillian’s confession. 


237 


closely regarding them. The pliant hinges in that house 
seldom made a noise, and it was some minutes before 
either Woodworth or Gillian saw the intruder. When they 
did look up, the cold surprise on Hurst’s face made the 
young girl recoil. The serpent had entered their paradise. 

“ I beg pardon ; but the servant informed me that I 
should find Miss Hart in the library,” said Hurst, ad- 
vancing to the window, and searching the two with his 
eyes. 

Gillian only bowed, while Woodworth remained silent, 
annoyed by the intrusion, but unconscious that it had any 
importance. 

“ Shall I find her in the drawing-room ?” persisted the 
insolent young man, still fixing his eyes on Gillian ; “or 
may I exnect her here ?” 

“ I dcWot know where my aunt is,” said Gillian, with 
a proud lift of the head ; “ but she seldom visits this 
room ; it is my father’s.” 

“ The servant will be able to tell me, perhaps,” said 
Hurst, bowing profoundly, and moving toward the door ; 
“ do not let me disturb you.” 

There was a sneer in his voice which Gillian felt keenly. 
Why was she 'compelled to see that man beneath her 
father’s roof? What infatuation was it which gave him 
so much power over Aunt Hetty? That sad, nervous 
woman, usually so still and yielding, had proved obstinate 
in receiving him at all hours, seasonable and unseasonable. 
Martha Hart, too, had brought the force of her innocent 
will into the contest — for there had been one — and could 
not understand what Gillian could find against a youug 
man so handsome, and who always had some charming thing 
to say, which was enough to make any woman like him. 
As for old Dinah, she was infatuated with the young man. 


238 


Gillian’s confession. 


He had given her a real Madras handkerchief, which she 
wore triumphantlv as a tnrban, and always designated 
her as Miss Hart’s maid, a distinction she was resolute in 
maintaining with a high hand if that proved necessary. 

Hurst found the elder and younger Miss Hart in a cosy 
little sitting-room up-stairs, where he had known them to 
be all along ; but the servant had told him that Miss 
Bentley was in the library with a gentleman, and he had 
gratified an audacious curiosity as we have related. 

Martha — really it is quite impossible to tell the changes 
that had come over pretty Martha Hart since her retreat 
from the country. She was so pretty in her white muslin 
dress and cherry-colored ribbons, her round arms had 
grown so white, and her plump hands so daintily soft 
and dimpled, that she seemed more like a goo||^atured, 
happy chilS than a full-grown girl, as she rSily was. 
Fresh from her farm -life, she enjoyed the luxury of her 
new existence like a bird when he finds the cherry trees 
laden with fruit, and received all the flattery bestowed 
on her with an appetite as keen as the little songster’s. 

Aunt Hetty and Dinah had been called to a consulta- 
tion with regard to the costume in which Martha was to 
appear at the great party now close at hand. A curious 
council it was. Aunt Hetty, of course, had no opinion 
to give : she never had, poor thing ! Martha herself was 
very much in favor of appearing as a flower girl, with a 
basket of roses on her head ; while Dinah impetuously 
expressed her preference for an oriental costume, glitter- 
ing with gold-lace, and gorgeous with contrasting colors. 

“ Now, young Misses, what’s the use of dem daisies 
and cowslops down here in York ? — got nuff and plenty 
ob dem tings on de farm ; jes yer put on dese garmins as 
some Queen ob Sheba hab worn afore yer, and stand up 


SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 239 

wid de best on ^em. What if Miss Gillian is a head taller 
than you is, an’ walks proud as de peacock afore him 
fedders drop, hain’t yer got de same blood in yer veins, 
wid eyes like black huckleberries, and a skin like curd 
now you’ve got de tan off? Jes yer let ’em see as der is 
more en one queen under dis horspertal roof. Miss Gil- 
lian is a smart gal, but she ain’t all cr’ation no more den 
udder folks. Golly no I” 

''Hush!” said Aunt Hetty, nervously, “some one is 
coming I” and the old lady held her breath as the foot- 
steps approached. 

“ Oh, golly, I’se satisfied. It’s only Mister Hurst, and 
he’s sartin ter gree to my ’pinion. We has de same taste : 
jes look at dis handkercher and see.” 

# 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS OP LOVE. 

“ Who is speaking of Mr. Hurst ?” exclaimed the young 
man, entering the room ; “ not the lovely Martha ? I fear 
with so many admirers she can hardly find a wor^to throw 
away on a poor fellow like me.” 

“ Because you throw away so many on yourself,” said 
Martha, laughing as she arranged the artificial flowers in 
a little basket on her lap. “ Wait till I put these red 
roses in against the white, so. There, ain’t I a pretty 
flower-girl ? and isn’t this just the character for me ?” 

“ It is perfection,” cried the young man, as she coquet- 


240 SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 


tishlj balanced the basket on her head, “one almost 
smells the new-mown hay from which the flowers were 
gathered.” 

Martha laughed till the basket trembled on her head. 

“ That’s all you know of real flowers,” she cried. 
“ Why these are made of muslin, and moss, and ever so 
many things. Real flowers would wilt under the first 
chandelier that shone on them. No, ho, real roses for the 
country, and artificial ones here. Don’t laugh, I’m a great 
deal wiser than you think. ” 

“ Wiser ? why there never was such a little philosopher. 
I am really half in love with your wisdom, and quite 
with yourself. What say you. Miss Hart, shall I pro- 
pose at once to this pretty flower-girl ?” 

“ Propose ! propose ! what I you ?” fal^jed the old 
lady, terrified as she always was by any t^Sg that led 
her thoughts into a new channel. “ I never thought of 
the thing. ' Our Martha and you I Is this in earnest ? 
You should not say these dreadful things in joke, Michael. 
Mr. Hurst, it shocks one so.” 

“ Well, then, suppose we change the lady, and say Miss 
Bentley instead of Miss Hart?” persisted the young 
man, with a glance in his eyes that sent the blood from 
Aunt Hetty’s face. “ That would be one way of making 
restitution, don’t you think so, madam ?” 

The blood that had retreated from Aunt Hetty’s face 
now left her lips also, and, with a faint moan, she fell 
back in her chair, quite insensible. 

Hurst regarded her with a triumphant look, while 
Martha flung the basket to the floor, crushing the flowers 
as she knelt before her aunt, and Dinah ran up to her 
chest for a camphor-bottle, with which she soon appeared, 


SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 241 

pouring its contents into the palm of her'hand as she hur- 
ried along. 

There, them’s um. Dat camphor’ll bring her too if 
any thing on yearth will 1 ’Tain’t none of yer York 
trash, but the ginuine article ’solved in rum as id make 
yer mouth water, temp’rai^ce or no temp’rance I Dar 
now, don’t yer see her eyelids are beginning ter flutter ? 
Mighty powerful stuff dis ’ere camphor ! Most raise de 
dead if ’em hadn’t laid too long. Dar now, how is yer. 
Miss Hetty ? Lor, when a person is prepared aforehand 
wid means ob resurrection, dese fits ’mount to nothin’ no- 
how.” 

“Are you better, dear lady ?” said Hurst, bending over 
the helpless woman, as she shrunk together in her easy- 
chair. ^ 

She lool® at him wistfully, almost in terror. 

“ What — what did you mean ? Restitution 1 who talks 
of that ?” 

“ No one talked of any thing that should give you pain. 
It was a joke — what else should it be ? Are you better ? 
Why, how you tremble I” 

“ She always trembles when these fits come on,” said 
Martha, chafing the cold hands in hers. “ The other day, 
when Cousin Gillian spoke about you, she didn’t get over 
shivering all night.” 

“ Spoke about me ? What did the young lady say, 
pretty Martha ?” 

Dinah set her broad foot down on Martha’s little slip- 
per with a force that made the unconscious girl' cry out. 
When she looked up to expostulate, the old woman’s face 
was gathered into a thousand warning wrinkles till it 
looked like a dried prune. 

“ What did she say ? I was present on dat ’casion, 

i 


242 SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 


Mas Hurst, and a more beautifuler complaisance never 
fell from lubly lips den she ’spressed ’garding yer. Ob 
course der wasn’t no ’casion for Miss Hetty here ter go 
an’ faint like a consarned ole fool, and she didn’t do it 
nohow.” 

Hurst said nothing, but he reasoned with himself. 

“ So I have been under discussion, and unpleasantly I 
Well, the sooner we open the war now the better. If I 
do not mistake the signs, it is full time for action.” 

“ There, now that Aunt Hetty is better,” said Martha, 
rising from her knee, scarlet from Dinah’s rebuke, “ will 
you help me pick up my poor flowers ? I have made up 
my mind, Dinah. The Queen of Sheba may go to Amster- 
dam; I’ll be a flower girl and nothing else. With a 
basket on my head, wreaths over my shouj^er, and a 
muslin apron running over with roses, red roses. Let 
them wilt — who cares ? they are sweeter, a thousand 
times, when the bloom is gone, than these pretty shams.” 

Dinah tossed her head and sniffed the air grandly. 

“ Der am pussons as kin ’commodate demselves ter any 
sitewation ; and dem as can’t do it nohow. I don’t want 
to make collusions, but every one understands her own 
compassity best. ^N’ow if yer was to say, ‘Dinah, am 
you compacitated to be a Queen of Sheba, or any 
udder ’public?’ I should say to once, ‘Yes, I is — don’t 
look furder — Dinah’s here.’ But der am a difference 
’tween folks and folks, no doubt ’bout dat. Dere was our 
Sarah, Miss Gillian’s mudder, she was a born queen, dyed 
in de wool : couldn’t a-made her carry a basket ob roses 
nohow. Wid one toss ob her head she’d a-sent ’em flyin’ ; 
but den she was white folks.” 

“ You remember Mrs. Bentley, then ?” inquired Hurst, 
with sudden interest. 


SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 243 


“ Well, I ^spect likely. Why not ?” answered the old 
woman, with a shrewd gleam in her eyes. 

“ Did you live at Mr. Hart’s at the time of her mar- 
riage ?” 

“ ’Spect likely,” replied Dinah, suddenly becoming shy 
and laconic. 

“And before — when the first Mr. Bentley was killed ?” 

“ Ask agin. I ’spect it was afore dat, I fust went to 
live at de stun house, ’cause my nancestors was born slaves 
in dat ’dentical family, and none of their ’scendants 
would be born anywhere else on no ’count. Liz am de 
last sprout on de ancestrous tree, and her cradle stands in a 
garret, circumstantious ebidence ob her bein’ born in de hum 
ob dem honorous colored pusons as descended afore her.” 

“ Then y^u have always lived with the Harts ?” 

“ Them’s um,” answered Dinah, with a nod of the 
head. “ Come wid em from down-east.” 

“And you know the entire history of the family ?” 

“ Mr. Hurst — Mr. Hurst — how can you ?” cried Martha, 
pointing to Aunt Hetty, who had risen, and stood gazing 
on the young man, white as snow, with her pale lips 
parted, as if she wished to speak but could not. 

Hurst turned suddenly and stood mute, while Aunt 
Hetty moved toward him like a ghost, and, touching his 
arm with her finger, said hoarsely, 

“Young man, desist. In the name of the dead, 
desist !” 

He stooped his head and whispered, 

“ I will, dear lady, when you tell me the whole truth.” 

She looked wildly around the room, as if searching for 
some means of escape ; then her eyes turned to his with a 
fascinated stare, and she said, in the same hoarse voice, 

“ Come with me then.” 


244 


SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 


He followed her out of the room toward her own cham- 
ber, and they disappeared through the door. 

Now d at consarned ole fool has gone full jump down 
de young sarpent’s throat, jus^ as I’ve seen a robin fly inter 
de mout’ ob a black snake, singin’ all de time. Dinah I 
Dinah ! if it wasn’t for your ’scretion what would dey all 
come to ? — corn shucks and rye straw, nothing more 
’stantial. Marcy Lord I hasn’t I a time on it ?” 

Away Dinah went, leaving Martha bewildered among 
her flowers ; but she was just in time to see Miss Hart’s 
door shut and the key turned in her face. 

“Well,” said she, with enforced (philosophy, “when de 
debil gets de start ob Dinah, look out for cinders 1 If dat 
darned ole maid w-ants to turn up J ack, she’ll do it now. 
Dat young feller has a good idea about de handkerchers 
as is becoming to de fair sex, but de ole sarpent is in him, 
or I don’t know de horns ob de debil when de poke out 
’daciously. Now, ole nigger, be on yer guard, for der am 
troubles brewin’, no mistake ’bout dat.” 

,The old woman went to her own room, for she was 
handsomely accommodated in the upper story, where her 
chest formed a conspicuous ornament to the room ; but 
she was really too anxious for rest anywhere, and hovered 
for an hour about the door of Hetty Hart’s chamber, really 
alarmed, and wondering what could be the subject of this 
long conference. 

At last the door opened, and young Hurst came out. 
His face was flushed, and his eyes were dusky with pas- 
sion — burning, fierce passion — that made you recoil, like 
the poisonous gases in a well. He swept by the old 
negress without appearing to see her, but still possessed 
presence of mind enough to step softly and leave the 
house without observation. 


SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 


245 


Dinah went into Aunt Hetty’s room, and found the 
poor lady prostrate on a couch, trembling so violently that 
every thing around her shook. She must have wept pas- 
sionately — an unusual thing with her, for a cushion that 
had been thrust under her head was wet, and the tears 
were still streaming down her face, which was white and 
contracted, as if an attack of cholera had left her pros- 
trate. 

“ Miss Hetty, what hah you been and done ? I ’plore 
ye tell yer ole servant all ’bout it 1 If trouble of all kind 
falls on de Hart family, who kin bear it better den de old 
nigger woman as watched ye from yer cradle, and knows 
more ’en she’ll eber talk ’bout ?” 

Hetty lifted one hand, with which she swept the tears 
from her eyes. The look which she cast on Dinah was 
heart-rending. 

“ What did you tell him ? Tell de old woman or yer 
heart ’ill bust for sart’in, and de Lord on’y kin help yer if 
she can’t I Speak out I what did ye say ter him ?” 

“ I don’t know, Dinah.” 

“And he stayed here a hull hour ?” 

“He was pleading — threatening — wounding me to 
death all the time. Oh, Dinah, my good Dinah, pity me, 
pity me ; for I have no friend on earth— nothing but you ; 
for you lived with us then, and for that, if nothing else, I 
love you, Dinah.” 

“ Poor chile I poor chile I Jes as she was when I held 
her in dese arms a baby. She hain’t been so nat’ral since 
that day. Look up, chile ; Dinah ’ill take care of yer. 
Now jis try and ’member ’bout what ye told dat feller, 
for ’fore de Lord I ’spectsdiim.” 

“ Don’t 1 oh I don’t, Dinah ! my heart is so sore from 
his cruelty I He would not believe me I He frightened 


246 


SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 


the words out of my bosom, and then raved that they did 
not please him ! What shall I do, Dinah ? tell me what 
I can do ?” 

What can you do I Why, jes dis : Till dat young 
rapscallion begs pardon — for dat ’ere is de word as come 
uppermost to my mout’ — ^tell him to keep ’bout his busi- 
ness, and not come near yer ag’in. You’ve acted like a 
bird twitterin’ to get out ob de way ob a snake ever since 
he came here so much. Miss Gillian loves him like p’ison, 
and my own young Misses will soon be getting skeery 
when he comes in. If it wasn’t for you. Miss Hetty, ’fore 
de Lord I don’t believe he’d come at all I” 

“ I know, I know !” moaned Hetty, writhing on the bed. 
“ I wish they wouldn’t feel so toward him ; it only makes 
bitterness and works danger. Tell Martha not to turn 
against him, for my sake — for Gillian’s sake.” 

“ Look a-here I” exclaimed Dinah, sniffing the air after 
her old fashion when an unpleasant idea presented itself, 
“ if yer means ter ’siniwate dat dis feller is wantin’ to 
spark Miss Mattie, an’ I’se to look on widout ’spressin’ 
my ’pinion on de suggect, ’tain’t of no use. He’s a mean 
specimin, and I’ll tell her so.” 

“ Oh ! it isn’t that. He doesn’t want Martha. It isn’t 
for her sake he comes here. I wish it was.” 

“ P’raps yer does; but I dusent. If yer wants to let a 
fox enter a brood ob young chickens, or hatch a rattlesnake 
in a hen’s nest, try it, but Dinah won’t help. He give 
me a handke’cher, and I’se grateful ; but de young Misses 
is under my ’tection, and he shan’t look at her over a pair 
of six rail-bars, if I can ’fend her from it.” 

Hetty was not listening ; her eyes were fixed on the 
wall, and her hands clasped hard, as if she were trying to 
pray and could not. 


SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 247 


Dinah began to speak again ; but the poor woman mo- 
tioned her off with a despairing movement, and closed her 
eyes wearily, as if they ached. 

“ So yer bound not ter tell what’s on yer heart said 
the old negress, wiping her eyes. “ Well, de Lord be 
wid yer ; per’aps yer’ll tell Him what ’tis dat ’stresses yer 
so. Nobody else can’t do nothin’ ’cause dere’s no compre- 
hensionizing de fust princ’pals ob de suggect.” 

So Dinah went forth, angry that all her eloquence had 
obtained no knowledge of a subject that had interested her 
so deeply, and grieved to the depths of her really kind 
heart to see her mistress so unhappy. 

Dinah had scarcely left flie chamber when Aunt Hetty, 
pale as death, and with a strange look on her face, as if 
tears had washed all the light and color away, arose and 
tottered around her chamber, with one hand lifted to her 
forehead. She was searching for a bonnet and shawl, 
which she put on with dreary slowness. Then she sat 
down on a bed, and fell to thinking, hour after hour, till 
the light faded, leaving her almost in darkness. At last 
she looked suddenly toward the window, gathered the 
shawl around her, and stole out by a back staircase seldom 
used by any one except the servants. 

Gillian had parted from her lover and gone to her own 
room — that sanctuary of a maiden’s thoughts which should 
be, like the owner, pure as snow. This feeling had possessed 
Mr. Bentley when he took so much pains to combine sim- 
plicity with luxury in the arrangements of the suit of rooms 
appropriated exclusively to his daughter. Bright and fra- 
grant was Gillian’s 43h amber as she entered it ; more fra- 
grant than usual, for a basket of moss roses and heliotrope 
had reached her in the morning, so arranged that she had 
no doubt of the giver ; and clusters of these lovely flowers 


248 SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 


were scattered about the room : you could see them 
through the delicate curtains of the bed, resting upon the 
pure linen pillows, and sending a pink glow up to the soft 
masses of embroidery which clung to the lace like snow- 
flakes. They were grouped in the tall vermilion glasses 
that stood upon the sculptured whiteness of the mantle - 
piece, just in quantities to send a faint fragrance through 
the room and no more. 

The window draperies were of lace, like those of the 
bed, and floated over blinds of a blue so delicate that they 
seemed patches of a warm sky breaking the edge of a 
summer cloud. A faint tinge of blue damask, with which 
the couch and easy-chairs were cushioned, stole out from 
the fine linen covers ; and clusters of white roses, tied by 
blue ribbons, formed a beautiful pattern to the blue and 
drab ground of the carpet. 

Two doors opened from this chamber, opposite the 
entrance : one led to her dressing-roOm, which, with all 
its luxurious paraphernalia, was closed ; and the other 
to her bath-room, which was cool and pure as a white 
marble floor and slabs advancing a yard up the polished 
walls could render it. 

A marble bath, in the form of a huge conch shell, occu- 
pied one end of the room, the lip of the shell curving 
downward, and an inner lining of pale amber, flushing off 
to pink as it retreated to the heart of the shell, melted 
softly into its edges. 

Above the bath, and forming a sort of cornice to the 
marble behind, was a lovely statuette, one of those 
generous purchases with which Mr.^Bentley loved to en- 
courage struggling genius. It was a female, softly falling 
to sleep, with her head resting on one arm, and her figure 
reclining on a bank. At her feet, the lotus, with its broad 


SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 


249 


leaves, suggested the neighborhood of water, which was 
artfully carried out by the liquid drops that gushed 
through them and fell raining into the bath. 

The bell-like tinkle of these water drops was in har- 
mony with Gillian^s thoughts. She lay down on a couch 
which commanded a view of the statuette, gazing 
dreamily on the sweet face, where a perpetual smile was 
frozen, which, after all, was but a shadow of her own 
warm, living joy. 

There the young girl lay, with her head uplifted by the 
pillows of the couch, her hands softly folded over her 
heart, and her lips parted as sweet, unuttered words died 
away upon them in smiles. 

You could have counted the beatings of her heart 
through the muslin folds of her dress ; the rise and fall 
of the white hands clasped over it, and crushing out per- 
fume from the spray of moss rose-buds which trembled 
to each thrill of happiness that stirred her bosom. 

Then she turned her head upon the pillow, giving her 
glowing cheeks to the air. She gathered the roses from 
her bosom and pressed them to her lips with both hands, 
murmuring softly, as the water drops fell, “ He loves 
me I He loves me 

Deep feeling is poverty-stricken when it seeks for 
adequate expression. It was the gush and warmth of this 
tender whisper which would have told you how happy 
the young girl was. 

Love is childlike in its simplicity — inexplicable to 
those who have never felt the joy of knowing it, and of 
that number are, pirhaps, ninety-five people out of a 
hundred. Gillian was one of the happy few. Heart, 
mind, and taste went with her alfections. The pure 
romance of her nature was satisfied entirely with the man 


250 SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS. 

who had won her. Pride, high, womanly pride, which 
was her fault and her glory, crested itself on the choice 
she had made. She could look up to him for strength, 
and yet feel that she was his mate — that he had a right to 
be proud of her, as she was of him. 

Then she thought of her father with a feeling that she 
had never loved him so thoroughly as then. In the 
breaking up of her heart a thousand precious feelings 
were found which she had not dreamed of before. In 
the glow of a great happiness, all her old affections took 
new vigor. To love and be loved is to man or woman 
the crowning joy of existence, and such it was to Gillian. 

Gillian felt this beautiful truth to the depths of her 
being, and it made a child of her. She kissed the roses 
he had given till their perfume glowed on her mouth. 
She kissed her own white hands because his lips had 
touched them last. She got up and surveyed herself in 
the tall mirror of her dressing-room, jealous that she was 
not beautiful enough, and greedy of more loveliness for 
his sake. 

She let down her heavy, auburn hair, that it might rip- 
ple through her hands and over her arm while she ex- 
ulted in its lustre. The glow and bloom of. her beauty 
became precious to her for the first time, and all for his sake. 

All at once she became more simple in her tastes : 
diamond and emerald rings were taken from her fingers 
and thrown into the pretty caskets. Such gauds should 
not come in contact with the little circlet of gold which 
Woodworth had, that morning, placed upon her hand. 
Henceforth his taste should adorn Iter. She would value 
no ornament which he did not choose. He should be all 
the world to her — more than the world ; for Gillian could 
have no idea- of a happy eternity which he did not share. 


OLD CHEST OF DRAWEES. 


251 


When Gillian made this little sacrifice — for she longed 
to give up something for her lover — she went back to the 
couch again. Her hands stole up and clasped themselves 
over her heart — which beat more softly now — and, closing 
her eyes, she fell into a sweet dream. 

All this time Aunt Hetty lay in the agony of some 
great sorrow, moaning on her bed in the chamber above 
— perfect happiness and deep suffering within twenty feet 
of each other, without jarring or sympathy. 

When Gillian fell to dreaming on her couch, Aunt 
Hetty stole out from her chamber, and crept like a ghost 
by the door which shut in so much joy. She did not feel 
it, but went on her own icy way, doubting if the world 
held any thing but pain and sorrow. 

Dinah sat in the upper hall, folding for herself a turban 
of colored gauze, which was intended for the great party. 
She saw the quiet lady stealing down the back staircase, 
and, hurriedly laying down her finery, snatched up a 
shawl and followed, muttering to herself, “ I wonder 
what secret she kin have dat ole Dinah hain’t got a right 
ter know.’^ 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

THE OLD CHEST OP DRAWERS. 

* 

Mary Nicholson I” 

Mrs. Nicholson came out of her little bedroom, looking 
very much frightened. 


252 


OLD CHEST OF DRAWERS. 


Did you speak to me, Mrs. Frost ?” 

The old lady did not answer promptly, for she was 
busy counting some change in the palm of her hand with 
great eagerness, as the increased vibrations of her head 
testified. 

“ Ten, eleven, twelve — one shilling — ^three cents. Why, 
Mary Nicholson I Mary Nicholson 1 what does this mean ! 
You’ve tampered with the change. I’ve suspected it for 
some time, now it’s clear. Mary Nicholson, what have 
you done with three cents that ought to be here and 
isn’t ?” 

“Three cents I” faltered Mrs. Nicholson. “It’s there, 
I — I’m sure. It’s all right, ma’am.” 

Again the old woman counted the money in her hand, 
nodding, nodding, nodding over it with terrible eagerness. 

“ No, Mary Nicholson, it isn’t right. I sent you to 
market, believing that you could be trusted with untold 
gold. I gave you twenty-five cents to buy marketing 
with : according to orders you bring half a pound of 
liver, with a trifle thrown in for the cat, which I’m sure 
the man ought to give, considering he has all our custom ; 
now the liver cost just five cents ; there was a cent’s worth 
of parsley, and — and ” 

“ Horseradish, ma’am ; you forgot the horseradish !” 

“Horseradish, one cent.” 

“Two 1” said Mrs. Nicholson, desperately, “two I” 

“No, one. I say one cent for horseradish; one for 
parsley; five for liver — seven in all. Now, Mary Nichol- 
son, don’t be afraid ; I don’t mean to go to the extremity 
of the law with you ; I’m willing to consider your youth 
and inexperience, but where are those three cents ?” 

Mrs. Nicholson was about to speak, and, we grieve to 
say, about to insist on the horseradish, but Mrs. Frost 


OLD CHEST OF DRAWERS. 


253 


went off like a pendulum, and began nodding so vehe- 
mently that the culprit broke down, and penitently con- 
fessed that she had spent three cents for a little bunch of 
garden flowers to put in Mr. Hurst’s room : she thought 
perhaps they might entice him to come home earlief. 

Mrs. Frost reached forth her hand and took her staff 
from the corner. It was impossible to support the 
weight of her indignation without help. 

“And you have done this — you spend my money to 
entice young men into noticing you I Mary Mcholson 1 
Mary Nicholson ! flighty as you are, I wouldn’t have be- 
lieved this of you. It goes beyond any thing. But this 
isn’t the first time: it’s three weeks since I saw you 
take that wineglass with the gold-sprig on it out of the 
cupboard. I suppose you’ve been robbing me and buying 
flowers ever since.” 

“No, ma’am, no. I changed the water twice a- day 
and cut off the stems to freshen ’em : one little bunch 
lasted two days, sometimes three.” 

“ Three times seven are twenty-one — say once in three 
days : I don’t want to be too severe on you, Mary Nichol- 
son ; but I say once in three days ; the third of three weeks 
is seven, and three times seven are twenty-one. Look, Mary 
Nicholson, if your flighty young mind can be brought to 
reflect — see of how much you have robbed me in three 
weeks ; twenty-one cents. Why, that ought to buy our 
marketing three days. What can I do about it ? if you 
had any wages I’d stop it out of them.” 

“ But I haven’t, or you might and welcome,” said Mrs. 
Nicholson, despondingly. 

“No, there’s the trouble. What am I to demand, then ? 
You haven’t got but that one dress that I know of.” 

“ No, I haven’t had a change this ten months. Don’t 


254 OLD CHEST OF DRAWERS. 

you remember scolding about the noise I made washing 
it out after you went to bed 

“ Remember I I should think so : always at some 
flighty thing or another. But there’s your shawl — but I 
haven’t seen it this ever so long — that is, perhaps, worth 
the money you have stolen.” 

“ Stolen I I didn’t think of stealing. It’s a hard word 
to give to a women of my age, and I won’t bear it from 
you or anybody else.” 

“ Hoity, toity I so the young blood’s up when one men- 
tions a bit of finery ; rather go to prison than part with 
that, I suppose. Yery well.” 

I — I haven’t got the shawl, or you might take it and 
welcome,” said the poor old lady, trembling at the name 
of a prison. 

“ Haven’t got the shawl ?” cried Mrs. Frost, and her 
head took a new leave of motion. “Not got your 
shawl ?” 

“No, it was getting warm weather, so I put it in 
pawn.” 

“ Put it in pawn I What, a respectable member of my 
family running about and pawning things ! But what did 
you do with the money ?” 

“ You can have the ticket if you like,” cried the poor 
creature, making a desperate effort to evade the question, 
“ it’s good security.” 

“ But what did you do with the money ? I want to 
know that, Mary Nicholson I” 

“ I — I bought a — a strip of carpeting.” 

“ Carpeting for what ?” 

“ To put down before Mr. Hurst’s bed. He’s so deli- 
cate, you know, and I was sure the floor would be cold for 
his bare feet when he got up in the morning.” 


OLD CHEST OF DBAWERS. 255 

Mrs. Frost sat down, bowed both hands on the top of 
her cane, and laughed till you could see the single tooth 
in her under-jaw, like a stump in a ploughed field. 

‘‘ Mary Nicholson, I believe you’re nothing worse than 
a fool all the time. Now just bring that strip of carpeting 
down and put it before my bed, and I’ll overlook this.” 

Yes, ma’am,” said Mary Nicholson, meekly, “ I’ll go 
at once.” 

She came down directly with a strip of bright new 
carpeting in her hand, submissive, but with tears in her 
eyes. 

Mrs. Frost carried the fragment into her own bed-room, 
and spread it upon the faded carpet there, chuckling over 
her triumph. Then she came back to the sitting-room, 
planted the staff before her, and gave the poor culprit, 
who sat crying in a corner, the sediments of her wrath. 

. “ Now, Mary Nicholson, I’ve got one thing to tell you. 

If I catch you setting your cap for Michael again in this 
scandalous way, trying to delude him with flower traps 
and carpet traps, I won’t answer for what I will do. I’d 
send you adrift this minute, but that I’m sure you’d get 
into mischief without me to take care of you. But, re- 
member, if I forgive this, it’s out of pure kindness.” 

“ I know it is, and I’m grateful — only somehow my 
wicked heart won’t feel kindness as it ought. to. But one 
thing is certain, Mrs. Frost, if I did get these things for 
Mr. Hurst, it wasn’t with any idea but of making him a 
little comfortable — I’m an old woman, you know, upward 
of seventy.” 

Here Mrs. Frost broke into a fit of sudden indignation, 
which set her head off in an effort at perpetual motion 
again with a vengeance. . 

“An old woman, and only seventy ! What do you mean 


256 OLD CHEST OP DRAWEES. 


by that, you affected thing ? I’m above ninety and not 
old yet, and shan’t be these fifteen years to come. Do 
you mean to insult me by calling yourself old ?” 

“No, I didn’t think of you — only of myself. It seems 
to me as if I wasn’t so young as I was, especially on 
washing-days, and when there is a good deal of going up 
and down stairs to do. But maybe it’s only a fancy. I 
won’t mention the thing again if you don’t like it.” 

“Well, I don’t, so there’s an end on’t. Now go down 
and cook the liver, and don’t forget the cat ; you’ve 
neglected her since Michael came home. There he is now, 
going up-stairs : run and see what he wants.” 

Mrs. Nicholson went up-stairs with a sinking heart. 

She dreaded that Hurst would miss the carpet and ques- 
tion her about it ; almost hoped that he might see- her 
flowers and forget the rest. 

But Hurst passed by the glass full of humble blossoms i 
without a glance, and tramped over the naked floor with 
equal indifference. His face was white with internal rage, 
his eyes smouldering over some evil purpose. They 
flashed eagerly when Mrs. Nicholson came in. He turned 
from an old “chest of drawers,” before which he was 
standing, and demanded of her, in a hoarse whisper, if she 
had any knowledge where the keys of that old rattle-trap 
were kept. 

Yes, Mrs. Nicholson knew where the keys were kept, 
for they had grown rusty since she came to the house in 
an old-fashioned jar which stood on the sitting-room 
mantle-piece, but for the world she' would not touch them. * 
Besides, there was nothing in the “ chest of drawers” but 
the minister’s old papers — she? had heard Mrs. Frost say 
so a thousand times. ^ 

“Ob, is that all?” said Hurs’t,. turning away; “not 


OLD CHEST OF DRAWEES. 


257 


worth thinking about. I thought all the old papers were 
kept in the open garret. What is the use of lumbering 
up this room with them ?” 

“ Oh, don’t speak a word about it to Mrs. Frost, I beg 
of you ; she’s like a child when any one mentions the 
minister. I don’t suppose she ever really loved any thing 
else in her life. It is quite heart-breaking to hear her 
talk of him sometimes. If he’d lived, maybe her old age 
would have been pleasanter to herself and everybody 
else.” 

‘‘ Heaven knows it’s crabbed enough now !” said Hurst, 
rudely. I wonder she has not starved you into the 
grave long ago ; but you are a fool to let her ; she’s got 
hoards of money somewhere, I’m sure of it.” 

“ No, no. I don’t believe it, fof she told me once that 
if it hadn’t been for a sum of money placed out at interest 
•by some one who had been under great obligations to her 
husband, she would have been left with nothing but the 
house to support herself with. I don’t think she really 
can afford to live better than we do. ” 

Here a quivering scrdam from the stairs made the gos- 
siping old woman start for the door. 

“Mary Nicholson 1 I say, Mary Nicholson, what 
keeps you talking so long ? Don’t you know it’s almost 
dinner time ?” 

“Yes, ma’am, I’m coming right off,” and away she 
hurried, while Mrs. Frost again called out, 

“ Michael ! was it you that came in, Michael ?” 

“Yes, grandmother,” said the young man, appearing at 
the top of the stairs. “ I thought you did not look quite 
well this morning, and so came in to inquire about you. 
Mrs. Nicholson says you are better, so I will come down 
and have a little chat with you before dinner ” 

16 


258 OLD CHEST OF DRAWERS. 

The old womau smiled grimly and turned into her little 
parlor, looking back to see if Hurst was following. 

He came down directly, with a smile on his mouth, but 
the same smouldering look about the eyes. The old lady 
was in her easy-chair near the fire-place ; and he stood 
by her, leaning one elbow on the mantle-piece, on which 
stood the old china jar mentioned by Mrs. Nicholson. A 
slight noise disturbed the old lady. 

“ Take care, you will knock off my china jar with your 
arm,” she said. “I heard the buttons on your sleeves 
jingle against it. Do come away. That jar was his first 
present. I can’t bear any one to touch it. 

“It’s nothing,” he answered, promptly, dropping one 
hand softly to his pocket, as he sauntered round her chair 
to the other side of the hearth. “ I only like to get near 
you, grandmother, especially when anxious about your 
health.” 

“ My health I why I’m well enough,” cried the old 
woman, testily. “ What on earth has set you thinking 
about my health, Michael ?” 

“Oh, you are getting iU-tempered with me now, and 
all because love makes me over anxious. I will go away.” 

“ No, no, Michael.” 

“ Yes, if my over-anxiety offends you, it is better that I 
should go.” 

“ But you will be home this evening ?” 

“ Of course, but not to intrude on you. Unless you 
come to my room I shall not think myself wanted.” 

“ Why, Michael, you know well enough I cannot go up 
and down stairs like a girl. It’s five years since I’ve been 
up those stairs.” 

Indeed, I did not know that. Well, I will come back 
early and read to you a while.” 


OLD CHEST OF DRAWEES. 259 

When the old woman turned her head to express the 
pleasure she felt, Hurst was gone. 

The young man kept his word. Early in the evening 
he came in and read to the old woman till she grew sleepy 
and went to her room. It was yet very early in the 
evening, and Mrs. Nicholson seemed disposed to have, a 
little social chat, but a peremptory voice from within 
ordered her to bed, and she went off reluctantly ; while 
Hurst went to the outer door and placed it ajar, in case 
he should wish to go out again in the night, no unusual 
thing with him. 

Then he mounted the stairs and went to his own cham- 
ber, secure of being uninterrupted. 

With a light in his hand, he tried the keys which he 
took from his pocket in the locks of the old chest of 
drawers, and with difficulty shot the rusty bolts. A mass 
of papers met his search, nicely arranged and most of 
them labelled. These he turned over eagerly till he came 
to a parcel of letters folded up more carefully than the 
others, which he sat down to read. 

It was impossible to guess what those letters contained 
by the^man’s face, which was clouded when he sat down, 
fierce when he got up. He twisted the black ribbon 
which had bound the package around it again, and thrust 
the letters in his bosom. Then he hurriedly tossed over 
the contents of one of the drawers, as if searching for 
something which he had cast aside ; and after a little, he 
found a parcel of printed blanks yellow from age, which 
he secured together with a package of letters which the 
good clergyman had written to his wife. 

With these he sat down at a table, studied the letters 
and blanks closely, and began to write. 


CHAPTER XXYIIL 


THE UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE. 

Woodworth was now Gillian’s accepted lover. After 
a generous struggle with himself, Mr. Bentley had given 
a cordial consent to this engagement, and to the tumult 
of doubt came the heaven of a confirmed and perfect 
love. No bird ever seemed more quiet brooding in its 
nest, than Gillian appeared as she mc|ved about that 
spacious house, or sat in her luxurious boudoir, wondering 
how any one could think this world a place of trouble. 
To her it was bright as paradise. If the sight of Michael 
Hurst gliding toward her aunt’s room with a soft step 
and a strange look in the face disturbed her repose for a 
single moment, it was followed by a proud curve of the 
lip, and a feeling of disdain that any thing so insignificant 
could intrude on her great happiness. How dared this 
man lift his eyes to the woman whom Woodworth had 
exalted by his love ? 

These thoughts were arrogant, perhaps, but Gillian was 
not only proud in her own spirit but imperial in her pride 
where her love was concerned. There is no equal on 
earth to the man a woman loves with her whole heart, 
and thus Gillian, our bright, beautiful Gillian, loved the 
man to whom her faith was pledged. It was the homage 
of pure appreciation to genius — the romance and passion 
of youth crowned this devotion with a glory. 

260 


UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE. 


261 


Thus Gillian felt as if some ill-omened bird was flitting 
through her paradise, when Hurst passed her with his 
half-sarcastic face and mocking indifference. But what 
had she to fear from him ? Her position was assured. 
Young, beautiful, and beloved, what had she to dread 
from Michael Hurst’s presence in her aunt’s room ? 
Surely nothing 1 Yet Gillian’s heart would recoil at the 
sound of his footstep, and a thrill of disgust would pass 
through her frame if his voice reached her. This made 
her angry ; a creature so insignificant had no right to 
disturb her thus. 

On the night of her party, Gillian’s engagement to 
Woodworth was to be admitted, if not proclaimed; and 
directly after that it was settled that her marriage should 
take place. 

There was to be no change in the household. Bentley 
would not give up his daughter, but welcomed a son into 
his own dwelling — a son that might, in some degree, 
enliven the solitude which surrounded him ; for though in 
the world, Bentley lived a man apart, and was in reality 
as little acquainted with the gossip, scandal, and trifles of 
social life as a hermit. The dignity of character which 
kept him aloof from these things imposed solitude upon 
him, for, after all, the interests of social life are made up 
of trifles which sensitive men like him reject. 

Bentley had seen young Hurst more than once, but he 
was not aware how frequently he visited the house, or 
that he had presumed to lift his eyes to Gillian. Looking 
upon him as an acquaintance of Miss Hart’s, he scarcely 
gave his presence or absence from the house a moment’s 
thought. Something about the young gentleman he did 
not like, but the feeling was so vague that he was hardly 
conscious of it. 


262 


UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE. 


After Hurst’s presumption in Mrs. Ransom’s grounds 
that day, Gillian had made a faint effort to persuade her 
aunt to exclude him from the house ; but Aunt Hetty, 
usually so shrinking and mild, fired up on the instant, 
offered to leave the house herself, but absolutely refused 
to be restricted in her own movements, or the company 
she might receive. 

Gillian was far too proud for explanations which com- 
promised her delicacy, and forbore to press the matter ; 
so Hurst came as usual, but the air which he had as- 
sumed then grew haughtier every day, and there was a 
look of subtle triumph in his eyes which became annoy- 
ing as it was inexplicable. 

On the morning before the great party, Hurst was in 
Aunt Hetty’s room. The door was closed, and the two 
sat far apart, looking away from each other like persons 
who had been talking on a subject which was annoying 
to one and painful to the other. 

Aunt Hetty had not been crying, but there was a white 
stillness in her face which gav5 it a deathly look, and 
through her frame came short, nervous spasms, which, at 
Hurst’s angry <;ommand, she t^s striving in vain to 
suppress. " . 

“You are sure that he has consented ?” 

Aunt Hetty bowed, and from her white lips came a 
faint, “ Yes.” 

“And that the engagement will be known to every one 
^ to-morrow night ?” 

» “ She told me so herself.” 

“And the marriage ? How soon is that to come 
' off?” 

f Hurst spoke bitterly and with a sneer. 

/• “ I don’t know,” said the old lady ; “ very soon, I think. J 


UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE. 


263 


Martha can tell : I heard her talking yesterday about being 
bridesmaid.” 

‘‘No matter what their plans are,” said Hurst, fiercely, 
“ I will thwart them long before they are settled.” 

The old lady started up and clasped her little hands, that 
shook and trembled like dead leaves before him. 

“ Oh, Michael, Michael, give that up — in the name of 
God give it up. I cannot stand by you — ^the bare thought 
is killing me. It is fraud, infamy, wicked, wicked in- 
famy ; the judgment of heaven would fall on us both»” 

Hurst arose and bent his fierce white face* over the 
trembling creature. 

“Woman, would you have me curse you ?” 

“ You 1 you 1 No, father of mercies, no — that would be 
more terrible yet.” 

“Hate you?” persisted the fiend, growing hoarse with 
rage. 

“ Hate me ! you I you I Oh, my God, my God, hear 
what he says I” 

“Abandon you forever ?” 

The poor woman writhed in her chair, moaning with 
impotent pain. 

“ For her sake — oh, Sarah, my sister, that it should 
have come to this I Can you hear ? — do you know ” 

Now two great tears came swelling up to her wild eyes, 
and dropped heavily, as if turned to lead by the pain that 
sent them forth. * 

“ Once for all,” said the young man, grasping both her 
hands, and crushing them together till the pain flickered 
up to her face. “ Once for all, let us understand each 
other. I will go on steadily, resolutely, unrelenting, and 
you shall help me.” 

“ I cannot ! I cannot!” she cried. 


264 UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE. 

He took no notice of that plaintive wail, but went on. 

“ Be firm, and I cannot fail — be firm, and I am more 
than a thousand nephews, more than a thousand sons to 
you. No angel was ever loved as I will love you. No 
queen was ever obeyed as I will obey you.” 

A look of troubled affection came into that pale face — a 
wretched, yearning fondness, that would have touched a 
wild animal. 

He saw it, and, dropping to one knee, threw his arms 
around her neck, and laid his cheek against her shoulder. 

“ I will be obedient like a little boy — kind, oh, so 
kind ! — there, there, don’t sob, but listen. Remember 
this is my right — ask yourself if it is not — I but claim 
what is before God my own. He has had it now almost 
a quarter of a century — has lived in luxury — pampered 
that proud girl till she thinks herself a goddess. Besides, 
I do not mean to dispossess him, nor to force the question 
into court. Be firm as I will, and all is arranged without 
trouble. Promise me — promise me I” 

He looked at her amid his pleading with a tenderness 
so real that her tears fell like dew. 

“ I think if you asked me to kill myself I should do it,” 
she said, timidly returning his caress. 

“ But I do not ask that — heaven forbid. I only wish 
you to remember the years in which I have planned, and 
worked, and suffered, to earn a decent living, while these 
persons have been feasting and pampering themselves on 
the property to which I have a right. Who, except your- 
self and the Bloomingdale woman over yonder, has ever 
thought or cared for me ?” 

But did Mrs. Frost was good to you. I am sure she 
ought to have been, for Sarah did every thing for her.” 

Qh, ^-es I I do not complain. But M’hat was an old 


UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE. 265 

woman like that to a child that pined as I did for a father 
to guide, and a mother to love me ? I have suffered 
enough — more than enough — for any thing they cared I 
might have been in State’s prison now. But their time 
is coming. Let them stand cringing on the steps of this 
great house as I have done ; let them meet cold looks as 
I did not an hour ago, and feel the Bentley blood boiling 
in their veins as it burns in mine : you know how they 
have insulted me.” 

“ Yes, I know that ; it was only this week Gillian came 
with that queenly air of hers, and asked me to forbid your 
coming here. As if I would.” 

“And for these people, who treat you, at best, like an 
upper servant, you would keep me a beggar.” 

“ No, no, not a beggar, Michael. You don’t know how 
poor Sarah saved and pinched for the money Mrs. Frost 
had for bringing you up. I never could have done it like 
hft*. Oh, Michael ! if she were only here now with her 
quick way of seeing things — but — but I should not dare 
look her in the face. Is not Gillian her daughter ?” 

“But she is not daughter to the man who owned all 
this wealth, nor shall she keep it ! It never was hers by 
right. Why can’t you see this as I do ?” 

“ But the law gave it to him I” 

“ The law is a tyrant. Besides, the question was never 
contested. How do we know what the courts would have 
decided, had all the knowledge we possess been laid be- 
fore them ?” 

The poor, nervous woman was yielding thought by 
thought to the strong will that oppressed her. Her heart 
was always in the right place, but the intellect which 
should have supported it wavered under the pleadings, 
and the sophistry which was so much like truth. Her 


2G6 


UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE. 


own heart, too, spoke loud in the young man’s behalf; all 
her ambition — a childish feeling at best — rose up to second 
his arguments. Sure enough, why should Gillian Bentley 
have the right to sweep Michael Hurst so disdain- 
fully from her path, as if he were a beggar and she an 
empress ? 

With these thoughts undermining the sense of right 
which was growing weaker and weaker each moment, with 
his pleading voice in her ears, the lone woman sunk quietly 
away from her integrity, and promised all that the young 
man asked of her. 

Then he arose to go, like a child who, having taken 
the first step, fears to walk alone ; she followed him, hold- 
ing out her hands. 

“ Michael I” 

He paused and came back, questioning her with his 
eyes ; for he had no heart to understand the yearning ten- 
derness that spoke in the word. 

“ Michael I” 

His intellect was quick, and he comprehended that there 
was some weakness which he was expected to humor. 

“Well,” he said, smiling, “you see I have come back 
.like a good boy : what is it ?” 

“ Michael, kiss me for the first time on earth before you 
go.” 

The young man was visibly touched. He bent down, 
and as he kissed her he murmured a single word that sent 
a bloom into her face, and made every nerve in her frame 
vibrate. Truly she had bought that one moment of hap- 
j)iness with a great price. 

She did not kiss him back, but received the touch of his 
lips with timid humility, sighing under the full content- 
ment of her wishes. 


UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE. 267 

“ You will never speak of cursing me again ?” she said 
wistfully, “the word hurts me like a knife.” 

“ Never ! Only be faithful to your promise, and we 
have neither of us any thing to fear. ” 

He went away after this. Aunt Hetty locked the door 
and drew down the curtain with eager haste. When 
quite alone, and safe from observation, she sat down and 
pressed the two hands, which he had clasped, to her lips 
with fervor, as a devotee kisses the feet of his idol. She 
took up the cushion he had leaned against and smoothed 
it with caressing softness, laid her cheek against it, and 
muttered soft, sweet words over it, as if the embroidered 
silk knew all that she felt, and would grow brighter from 
sharing her joy. 

Then she heard a step at the door, and a clear, young 
voice called out : 

“Aunt Hetty, are you here ? May I come in ?” 

It was Gillian’s voice. The cushion dropped from 
Aunt Hetty’s clasp, and, holding her breath with sudden 
terror, the poor creature sunk with it to the floor, afraid to 
speak. 

Then came a repetition of the words, which broke into 
snatches of music at the end, and Gillian’s light footstep 
died away in the hall ; but the sound of her voice came 
back like the song of a nightingale when the rose season 
is at its full. 

The youDg girl was very, very happy that day ; Wood- 
worth had just left her, and, like the bird we speak of, she 
carried her joy and her song everywhere she went. With 
her all was sunshine ; but darkness had fallen upon the 
poor woman who sat upon the floor of that closed room, 
trembling under the light vibrations of her song. 

“It is Sarah’s child — it is Sarah’s child,” she muttered, 


268 


UNWILLINa ACCOMPLICE. 


rocking to and fro, with both hands clasped over her 
knees, “ and I have promised to destroy her : better as it 
was, oh, how much better as it was I” 

Thus all that day she sat upon the floor bewailing her- 
self, without the courage to do right or wrong 

The next day Aunt Hetty was ill — so ill that she re- 
fused to leave her room, though the house was all in a 
tumult of preparation, and the gay world in a storm of 
excitement. This would undoubtedly prove the grand ball 
of the season : persons would be present who seldom ap- 
peared on such occasions ; and to the usual crowd which 
composes a fashionable assemblage, the Bentleys would 
add many celebrities which no one else could command. 
In-doors the commotion was intense. G-illian, with her 
fine artistic taste, was busy as a bee turning the stately 
mansion into a bower of Eden for that one night. 

Clothed in her morning-wrapper, which floated around 
her like a cloud, Gillian was in fifty places at once, smiling 
and radiant, giving gleams of new beauty to every thing 
she touched. While Martha tried on her dress at least 
half a dozen times ; and Dinah, to use her own words, 
made dem city niggers from de confectionariums stand 
’bout, while she gave an opinion of every thing which was 
brought into the supper rooms. 

Now and then Mr. Bentley was called from his books 
to give an opinion where some statue was to be moved, 
or a picture lighted up ; but of all the household Aunt 
Hetty never appeared. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


OTENINa OP THE BALL. 

The house was lighted up from roof to basement. The 
windows were one blaze of gold, ruby, or azure, as the 
silken draperies through which the rays passed chanced 
to be tinted. A fine, weeping elm that drooped its 
branches at one end of the house seemed bathed in sun- 
shine, so rich was the flood of light that poured through 
the painted glass of the bay windows. The marble 
vases that lined the broad steps to the front entrance 
gleamed out like snow beneath the contrast of the trailing 
leaves and gorgeous blossoms that crowded them. The 
folding-doors were constantly open, and a broad pavement 
of light fell to the street, where a curious crowd was 
gathered to watch the guests as they descended from their 
carriages. 

Within all was equally brilliant. The library and Gil- 
lian’s boudoir, which opened from it, were thrown together 
in rich contrast, like two grand pictures of the ancient 
school, a Rembrandt and a Guido. The one, so deep in 
shadows, that a world of light seemed absorbed in re- 
vealing it; the other, so fresh and fairy-like, that it 
seemed as if Aurora herself must have prepared it for 
her train. 

In the library, bronzes and dark carvings gave depth 

and richness to harmonize with its crimson draperies. In 

* 

the boudoir, statues and statuettes of pure white marble 

269 


270 OPENING OF THE BALL. 

grouped their snowy limbs under clouds of azure and 
lace drapery, looped back from the windows by garlands 
of natural roses, that sent their breath in among the 
heavy books, and played with the golden light of the 
chandeliers in the library. In one window a Hebe vase 
of alabaster, classic and stately, was tinted red by the blos- 
soms of a fuchsia that drooped over it. The curtains of 
another were held away from the windows by a laughing 
Bacchante, who seemed to have forgotten the grapes 
which he grasped triumphantly in his uplifted hands. In 
a little recess, which opened upon a balcony, a marble 
Cupid lay asleep literally on a bed of roses, for fresh 
blossoms breathed all around him, on his snowy couch 
and over his delicate limbs, blending their pink light with 
his smiles, till he seemed to laugh in his dreams. The 
carpet was soft and fleecy, like a bed of soft snow, over 
which the Cupids, on the exquisitely frescoed ceiling over- 
head, had been pelting fresh flowers all the day long. 

Every thing in this room was cloud-like and vapory. 
The floating lace, the sleeping statues, and the roguish- 
Cupids overhead seemed pervaded by a silvery mist, for 
the light came moonlike through a partition of plate-glass, 
that alone shut out a conservatory beyond. 

Through this translucent partition glowed sheets of 
azalaes, rhododendrons, and golden-leaved acacias, with 
other rare tropical plants all in full flower, over which 
globes of ground glass shed their soft moonlight, which 
penetrated to the boudoir, revealing it like a dream. 

Into this room Gillian came alone to meet her lover, one 
happy moment before the company poured in. Down she 
glided along the broad staircase, pure as snow and bright 
as a sunbeam. Fold upon fold — fold upon fold of delicate 
lace enveloped her. Silvery tulle over net, and above that 


OPENING OF THE BALL. 


271 


the gossamer richness of Brussels point, with traceries 
that seemed like frost-work forming as she moved, gleamed 
and floated around her. From the coronet of hair that 
circled her queenly head fell a triple vail of tulle, like mist 
tinted through and through by the prism ; azure, white, 
rose-color, and pale violet fell over her dress as the morn- 
ing tints a cloud, and through this her face shone out 
resplendent in its loveliness, for the thought of meeting 
him had scattered rose-leaves on her cheek, and filled her 
eyes with love-light. She was indeed what her dress 
proclaimed her, “ Queen of the Morning I’^ 

Woodworth was in the boudoir waiting. He saw her 
enter the library and glide through. She approached the 
boudoir, not with her usual self-possession, but like a 
child who longs to be admired, and is yet ashamed of the 
desire. That night Gillian panted to be beautiful, but 
love made her diffident, so she came in blushing and half- 
abashed. Woodworth held his breath ; she seemed so 
much like one of those creations of Guido which never 
seem quite of earth, that he stood lost in pleasant sur- 
prise. She came close to him, wondering why he did not 
speak. 

One little hand stole out from under the cloud of her 
vail and touched his arm. He prisoned the white hand in 
his, and thus they stood together in the moonlight that 
beamed from the conservatory, smiling on each other, but 
silent. Perfect love has no language, and requires none. 

* With those eyes upon her face, Gillian knew that she was 

I becoming more and more beautiful every moment. She 
felt like an angel ; he thought that she looked like one. 

A few words were murmured after this, fragmentary 
nothings, I dare say, but very sweet and musical to them. 
Before it could become conversation, the unwelcome 


272 OPENING OF THE BALL. 

sound of footsteps in the vestibule made them draw apart, 
and directly a lady, who seemed to have glided out of 
Louis the Fifteenth’s court, came into the library and 
moved slowly toward them. 

Gillian looked upon the intruder with surprise, for she 
seemed a perfect stranger. In all her list of friends she 
remembered no one so queenly in her presence, so im- 
pressed with an air of command. 

The dress, an old-fashioned brocade of apple-green 
and silvery white, looped up with ribbons from an under 
skirt of rose-colored silk, was of regal richness. The tall 
head-dress, powdered, puffed, and woven in with jewels ; 
the plume of snowy feathers on one side, an'd the fall of a 
glowing rose back from the left temple, were gorgeous, 
but subdued by powder ; while the neck and arms gleamed 
whitely through a profusion of yellow old lace, and the 
stomacher blazed with jewels. 

“ Who can it be ?” whispered Gillian, gazing upon the 
lady, whose face seemed to possess scarcely a familiar line. 

One would think she had stepped out of a picture but 
for these bright eyes. Who can she be 

“ Hush 1 she is in search of us. I know her, and yet 
cannot imagine who she is,” whispered Woodworth, draw- 
ing Gillian back to his side. She is evidently looking 
for some one.” 

The lady entered, saw Gillian, and came forward. 

“ My dear Miss Bentley, and you also my friend,” she 
said, with cheerfulness, evidently forced, for her voice was 
husky. 

Gillian gave a little start, and then broke into a birdlike 
laugh. 

“ Mrs. Ransom — oh, my dear Mrs. Ransom ! I am so 
glad you have come ! I waited and waited up-stairs, 


OPENING OF THE BALL. 27S 

thinking that you might want help about your dress ; but 
it is perfect : I never saw such a change : who on earth 
would recognize you ? I shall have to introduce you 
twice over to papa ; he wijl never get the least idea of 
you in this splendid costume.” 

“ So you would not have known me ?” said Mrs. Ran- 
som. “Well, I am glad of it — one does not bring every- 
day life into a scene like this. If I do no discredit-to 
‘ this fair morning,’ it is enough.” 

“ But your dress is so brilliant, and your face so pale,” 
cried Gillian. “Is it these pretty patches, or are you 
nervous ? I never saw you so white before.” 

Mrs. Ransom laughed rather hoarsely. 

“ Oh, that is a trick of the toilet which Ruby will ex- 
plain when you ask her; but let me look at you both. 
Indeed, is it so ? Can such happiness exist and endure ? 
God bless you both !” 

“ Why, how you tremble ! how cold your hand is !” cried 
Gillian, warming the chilled hand with her kisses. 

“ It is the new sensation of coming into a crowd : don’t 
mind it ; but tell me if Mr. Bentley has consented.” 

“ Generously, nobly,” said Woodworth. “ Oh, Mrs. 
Ransom, he is a prince among men.” 

“ He is — he is ” 

Mrs. Ransom uttered these words so impressively that 
Gillian and Woodworth looked at each other. Mrs. Ran- 
som saw the glance, and went on, catching her breath as 
she spoke. 

“ Every one says that. It is a beautiful thing to be so 
respected, so thoroughly beloved. Your father should be 
a very happy man, Gillian.” 

She spoke feverishly, and her eyes kindled. ** 

“ My father is too sensitive, too solitary in his habits 
17 


274 OPENING OF THE BALL. 

. for happiness, but he is good, wise, and generous, and 
these things are great blessings. To-night he has prom- 
ised to be very, very happy — but I saddened him only a 
few minutes since. It seemed as if I never wanted a 
mother so much in my whole life as I do this evening. I 
told him so, and it brought tears into his eyes. I tried to 
caress him into cheerfulness again, but he shrunk away 
from me ; so I was a little mournful for the time. But he 
is here, and you have come : what more can I want ? 
There, there is papa now looking for us. One moment, 
Mrs. Ransom I” 

Gillian hurried forward into the library and met her 
father half-way. Mrs. Ransom took Woodworth’s arm, 
leaning heavily upon it. She saw Gillian coming forward 
dimly like a cloud followed by a dark shadow. 

‘‘Mrs. Ransom — my father, Mr. Bentley.” 

Julia heard the words, and moved forward under a 
chandelier in the library. Bentley saw a fine woman glit- 
tering with jewels. Her eyes shone upon him like stars 
reflected deep in a lake ; but she seemed too pale for a 
woman of robust health, which was evident from the round 
fullness of her person. The unnatural contrast of her face 
and her person struck him with a sort of chill. But he 
could not remove his eyes from her gaze. She had fascin- 
ated him by a look, as she had thousands and thousands 
by her genius. Though a recluse, in many respects, Mr. 
Bentley had seen too much of society not to feel that 
some words of hospitality were expected from him ; but 
he could not speak them : the very presence of this 
woman enthralled his senses. 

She did not seem embarrassed, but excited and eager; 
her lips parted, her hands trembled visibly. She looked 
down at them and seemed terrified by her own agitation. 


OPENING OF THE BALL. 


275 


“You see how society affects me,” she said, turning 
desperately to Woodworth. “Bring me a glass of water — 
I pray you bring me a glass of water.” 

She was evidently faint ; her parted lips were white as 
si^ow ; the lids trembled over her eyes. She staggered ; 
Bentley threw his arms around her or she would have 
fallen. As it was, a shudder passed through her frame, 
and she was sinking from his arm to the floor. 

Gillian caught her with both arms, for her father seemed 
paralyzed. 

“ Help me lift her, papa ; she is quite gone ; her cheek 
is cold as death.” 

This plea aroused Bentley — his eyes kindled — he grew 
strong. 

“ Give her to me entirely,” he said, bearing her to a 
sofa. “ She is evidently, like me, oppressed by the idea of 
this crowd.” 

He laid her softly on the sofa, while Gillian arranged 
the cushions, and knelt down, listening for a breath from 
those cold lips. 

“ Oh, father, is she dead ?” cried Gillian, startled by 
the strangeness of his face. 

“ I do not know,” he said, vaguely ; “ but it seemed just 
now as if some one had died a second time. HasVe you 
any strange feeling of bereavement, Gillian ?” 

“ I had, an hour ago, while thinking of my mother ; but 
now I tremble with anxiety to see this dear lady look up.” 

“ Your mother !” cried Bentley, starting up with a ges- 
ture of sudden pain. “ Gillian, a moment since this woman 
lay upon my bosom. It was your mother’s place till — 
till — girl, how dare you ask me to lift that form in these 
arms !” 

“ I thought she was dying, papa.” 


276 OPENING OF THE BALL. 

'‘And so she is, perhaps,’’ answered Bentley, with sud- 
den gentleness. " We are cruel to bring old regrets here. 
Why does not Woodworth come with the water ?” 

" He is here I he is here I” cried Gillian, meeting Wood- 
worth and taking the goblet from his hand. "Now, 
papa, if you would leave the room and get a little more 
calm.” 

" Calm, child ! I am calm I” ^ 

" It is terrible to see any one so close to death,” §aid 
Woodworth, lifting Julia’s head, and attempting to force 
the water through her lips, " and she the most noble of 
human beings ; this paleness frightens me.” 

Bentley took one of the hands that fell downward toward 
the carpet ; a pulse leaped into the wrist as he touched it, 
and the palm grew warm against his. 

" She is better,” he said, unconsciously clasping the 
hand — " much better. Speak, dear lady, and tell me if I 
am right.” 

She did not answer ; but he felt her fingers tighten 
around his, while a tremor passed over her mouth. 

" Yes, I am better. Oh, if this were death now !” 

She whispered this, faintly struggling, as it were, not 
to grow strong or entirely conscious. 

•That instant the voice of Aunt Dinah penetrated to the 
library, and the sound of her feet, patting across the floor 
of the vestibule, gave a promise of vigorous help. 

" Where am she, I says ? What am all dis touse ’bout, 
takin’ off der glasses from der tables afore meal-time, and 
raisin’ ole Scratch gin’rally ? What lady am it as guvs 
up afore der fun begins ? I’m a’most out o’ breath climb- 
ing to dat chist. Den der lock got obstrop’rous and 
wouldn’t work, and I got mad — bang ! open it flew, and 
here’s a bottle ob der best camfire dat ebber cum under 


OPENING OF THE BALL. 277 

dis ruff ; I certifies to dat, anyhow, I does. Miss Gillian, 
where am der indervideral ? jist p’int her out.” 

Before any one could speak, Dinah saw Mrs. Hansom 
lying on the sofa, and darted toward her the more vigor- 
ously as a carriage that moment rolled up to the door. 
Without pause or caution she gathered the palm of her 
withered hand into a hollow, filled it from the flask, and 
dashed it into Mrs. Hansom’s face with a suddenness that 
made the poor lady gasp painfully. 

Bring her to in no time 1” cried Dinah, triumphantly, 
filling her palm again. “ Jes see der color come ter ’er 
mout’ ; but den dis yer camfire is strong ’nough to stand 
’lone. None ob yer city potticary stuff dat yer. Hab ter 
cork up tight ter keep alive, but sharp as horseradish an’ 
stingin’ as mustard. Am yer ’viving, marm ? Der yer 
feel dis yer camfire burnin’ from der crown ob yer head 
ter de soles ob yer feet ? ’cause if yer don’t I’se on hand 
for fodder dose.” 

“Foolish Cld woman, I am better,” murmured Mrs. 
Hansom, dreamily. “ Don’t disturb me again ; I want to 
sleep. ” 

“What? how? Foolish ole woman I foolish ole 
woman I Now dis indervederal hasn’t had der honor of a 
’duction, an’ she calls me ole woman; dat’s manners 
’mung white folks, I ’spose.” 

Dinah was so exasperated that she gave her head a 
vigorous toss, and handed her camphor bottle to Wood- 
worth, with the air of a marshal of France resigning his 
baton in disgust. 

“ I ’spect when Miss Gillian twisted dis turben round 
my head, and ’vested me with dis silk gown, she wasn’t 
’specting ter see de owner ’suited ; but I’ll detire till dis 


278 


OPENING OF THE BALL 


yer lady comes ter a sense ob her sitivation an’ mine. 
Ole woman ! wonder what she calls ole — ugh I” 

Mrs. Ransom smiled as one laughs in a dream ; but 
when Mr. Bentley quietly rebuked Dinah and sent her 
from the room, she seemed to recover her faculties with a 
start, and sat up, looking earnestly around. 

Have I been ill ?” she said, turning her eyes on Gil- 
lian — “ ill and troublesome ?” 

‘‘ 111, dear lady, but not troublesome. ” 

She looked eagerly around. 

“ There was some one else here — or am I mistaken ?” 

“An old colored woman, whom we all spoil terribly, 
went out a moment since, after half-smothering you with 
comphor, that is all !” 

“An old colored^ woman ? I wish she had stayed a 
moment longer.” 

“ Shall we call her ?” said Woodworth. 

“ Ho, no ; hark ! carriages — another, and I detaining 
you all here. It is unpardonable !” ^ 

She started up, and arranged her dress with haste, 
keeping her eyes averted from thfe little group of friends. 

“ How,” she said, smoothing the lace over her elbows 
and arranging the folds of her dress, “ shall we go back 
to the pretty room yonder ? I shall not faint again, de- 
pend on it. Hark, the first group is coming. Let 
us go !” 

Mr. Bentley offered his arm. Mrs. Ransom scarcely 
touched it as she appeared to lean upon him. She was 
self-sustained now, either by fever or excitement, for her 
cheeks were red as tea-roses, and her eyes took the glance 
of an eagle. She looked younger by ten years than 
when she entered the room. 

And how the crowd came pouring in through the bril- 


T-HE FIRST WALTZ. 


279 


liant library into the moonlight of the boudoir, chatting, 
laughing, and treading time to imaginary music ; charmed 
by the beauty of the young hostess, wondering that a 
woman who wrote such books could live, talk, and move 
like other people, they passed on through the blooming 
labyrinths of the conservatory, and into the great draw- 
ing-room. Here the floors were elaborately ornamented 
for dancing ; and a temporary gallery was occupied by 
the band, whose music soon rang through the building. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE FIRST WALTZ. 

And now the house was filled. Brilliant groups 
passed every moment from their silken-lined carriages 
to the dressing-rooms overhead, and down the noble 
staircase again, chatting, gliding, and full of sweet 
noises, like tropical birds when the forests are in flower. 
The murmur and hum of enjoyment ran from room to 
room, for groups of the gay revellers might be found 
among the shadows of the conservatory, in the moon- 
light of the boudoir, or the stronger brilliancy of the 
library. Everywhere that night pleasure reigned tri- 
umphant ; but happiest of all was the fair mistress of the 
revel, and most brilliant of all was her friend, Mrs. Ran- 
som. She had shaken off her temporary indisposition, 
and gave out the brightness of her genius like a star, 


280 


THE FIRST WALTZ. 


scattering wit and courteous sayings around her, as the 
German prince cast jewels from his vestments, reckless 
where the bright things fell. Wherever she was, a 
cloud of rustling silks, vapory laces, and waving feathers 
was certain to collect, for Gillian was sure to be near, and 
like two genii they reigned together, the one by her 
brightness and her beauty, the other by a power of genius 
that was irre^stible. 

Martha Hart, too, flitted through the rooms like a bird. 
With a dainty basket of flowers poised on her head, and 
a muslin apron gathered up in one hand, through which 
came the red glow of roses, she went from group to group 
bargaining for her flowers, full of wholesome glee and wit, 
not the less pleasant that it was a little saucy. In the 
distance, always in the distance, and fluttering on the 
outskirts of the crowd, was a little, pale woman, looking 
wildly from face to face as if in search of some one. 
Sometimes she spoke furtively to the flow^er girl, who 
always answered with a careless laugh. 

“ Has he come, aunt ? Indeed I do not know. Why 
should you or I trouble ourselves about him V' Then 
she would begin to hum, 

“ I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, 

Where the summer dews are sweet,” 

and take wing again. 

“ Will you dance with me said a soft voice at her 
elbow. 

“ Will I dance with you, Mr. Hurst ? Of course ; but 
it is a waltz, or something that I never danced except 
alone with Gillian ; but she is standing up too. Yes, 
yes, ril be ready in a moment.” 

She darted off in search of Aunt Hetty, and found her 


THE FIRST WALTZ. 281 

on an iron seat in the conservatory, at an angle that com- 
manded a view of the boudoir and drawing-room. She 
looked wild and anxious as Martha came up. 

“ Have you found him she asked. 

‘‘ Yes, yes, and we are going to dance.” 

“ Dance I What, he dance to-night ?” 

“ Yes, yes, do make haste and unfasten the basket from 
my head ; there, undo the ribbons ; all right ; now hold 
it till I come back, or, if you get tired, put it on the seat ; 
I can find it again. Now give me a pin : I want to fasten 
up my apron so that the roses cannot spill out. Now, I’m 
off.” 

“ Stop, stop. Are you going to dance with him — with 
Michael Hurst ?” 

“ Dance ! that isn’t the word, aunt. I’m going to waltz, 
to whirl around in this fashion, do you see ?” She bent 
her left arm, pressed the hand to her side, and gave a 
whirl that sent her muslin robe dashing against the glow- 
ing shrubs that rained a storm of petals over her. As the 
bright leaves fluttered in the folds of her dress, she darted 
away, calling out, 

“ Take care of my basket. Aunt Hetty, or leave it, if 
you like, and come see us dance.” 

Yes, Aunt Hetty had no reason for sitting there behind 
the plants any longer. Hurst was in the crowd : she would 
search for him there — she would do any thing to shake olf 
the harassing anxiety that was almost killing her. In her 
dark dress she might pass for a nun or sister of charity, 
and so speak with him and no one observe it. 

She left Matty’s pretty basket on the chair, and wan- 
dered off lonely as if she had been in a wilderness. 

The waltz was at its height, and the crowd in a whirl 
of excitement. Here a Cleopatra swam by in the arms of a 


282 


THE FIRST WALTZ. 


Roman senator ; fair Greeks whirled past supported by- 
Turkish pashas ; and sons of the war-path flirted with 
novices of the white vail. 

Aunt Hetty was bewildered and shocked. To her the 
people seemed going mad : she was crowded to the wall, 
and leaned against it out of breath and frightened. Among 
the whirl of dancers she could distinguish no one ; and 
her heart was bent on speaking to Hurst ; she could en- 
dure that torture of apprehension no longer. 

A lady came and stood beside her — a tall, stately woman 
in the prime of mid-age, but who looked grand and youth- 
ful compared to her. The flash of jewels on her bosom, 
as the light struck aslant on them, made Aunt Hetty shut 
her eyes. The gorgeous brightness pained them. The 
lady, as if unconsciously, rested one hand on Aunt Hetty^s 
shoulder; she seemed weary and heavy-hearted. Not- 
withstanding all her splendor, there was something to 
pity in that sad face. 

“ Are you tired ? — would you like a seat, madam V said 
the little woman, shrinking beneath the touch of that 
strange hand as if it pained her. 

The lady dropped her hand slowly, and looked down 
at the speaker. What a wild, troubled face it was that 
she gazed upon ! The hair, parted so smoothly beneath 
her cap, seemed scattered with ashes. Alas I when gray 
hairs appear before their time, they usually spring from 
the askes of dead hopes, the bitterest kind known to 
humanity. 

Mrs. Ransom could not turn her eyes from Aunt Hetty’s 
face ; something in the expression smote her to the heart. 
She noticed the little feet moving restlessly on the floor — 
the hands clasping and unclasping themselves under the 
black lace scarf — the arm, with its hair bracelet, from 


THE FIRST WALTZ. 


283 


which a locket fell, containing the mingled tresses of two 
females, fair and dark, curling together. At last the lady 
spoke, but there was anguish in her voice. 

“Yes, I am tired — ill I fear. Is there no place in 
which I can rest a moment ? No private room where I 
should not be an intruder 

“ I — I will go up with you to my own chamber — that 
is always quiet ; but excuse me if I do not stay : I must 
be here ; oh, they are coming now I Mr. Hurst — Mr. 
Hurst, one moment !” 

She darted forward as Hurst and Martha Hart went 
circling by among the dancers, and made a grasp at the 
young girl’s dress. The apron gave way ; all the roses 
it contained fell to the floor, and were scattered abroad by 
a sweeping whirl of the next couple. 

“ Oh, aunt ! how could you ?” cried Martha, panting 
for breath, as she retreated from the circle. “ See my 
poor roses, and my torn apron ! It’s too bad.” 

Aunt Hetty did not heed her — did not even know the 
mischief she had done. 

“ Hurst — Hurst, I must speak to you,” she said, with 
desperate resolution. 

“ Well, be quick then, or we lose our place in the ring. 
Oh, Mrs. Ransom I more beautiful than ever ! This is a 
splendid affair. I enjoy myself with a zest ; how is it 
with you ?” 

“ I am beyond the age when gayety enchants,” she said, 
gravely ; “ but this lady desires to speak with you : she 
has been very anxious. Gro with her.” 

The words were softly spoken, but they seemed like a 
command. 

Hurst whispered a few words to Martha, and followed 
Aunt Hetty to the conservatory. Gillian and Woodworth 


284 


THE FIRST WALTZ. 


whirled bv him as he went down the room. He started 
back as a rattlesnake coils for a spring, and the hate that 
shot from his eyes was venomous. 

Mrs. Ransom was watching him. She saw the look, 
but thought the dancers had, perhaps, trod on him as they 
whirled by ; and knowing his evil temper, this was enough 
to explain his evident wrath. 

After a little time, the two came back. Hurst was ex- 
cited ; his cheek burned like fire, and he cast stern glances 
at the little woman, which made her shrink like a threat- 
ened child. 

“ Come,” he said, seizing Martha almost rudely by the 
waist, “ let us see who will be crowded from the track.” 

He gave the young creature a fierce whirl, and dashed 
in among the dancers like a storm. 

An humble, heart-broken look had settled on Aunt 
Hetty ; she was nervous no longer, but all the strength 
had left her limbs. Mrs. Ransom put one arm around 
her, and all the beauty of her countenance shone forth. 

Has he been unkind ?” she whispered. 

“ He I — who ?” said Aunt Hetty, with a wild look. 

‘‘ Oh, I had forgotten that we are strangers,” said Mrs. 
Ransom with a sigh ; “but you seemed troubled, and one 
sometimes forgets proprieties where sympathy is strong.” * 

“ Troubled — I ? Who said that ? I am naturally a 
still person — a poor, nervous creature, they call me ; but 
as for trouble, what trouble car} a woman have who is so 
much alone ?” 

Mrs. Ransom felt the frail form shrink and tremble 
against her arm. She tightened its clasp a little and 
whispered, 

“ But I am both weary and ill ; where is the room you 
promised ?” 


THE FIRST WALTZ. 


285 


Aunt Hetty aroused herself. 

“Yes, I can stay with you now : it is all over ; when 
one is too weak for a struggle rest ought to come. Fol- 
low me through the supper-room : it is the shortest way.” 

She seemed glad to cast the protecting arm away, and 
moved through the crowd to a side door, which she opened 
cautiously. Mrs. Ransom glided after her, and in a mo- 
ment they stood in the supper-room, over which Dinah 
was presiding in her gorgeous turban and flaming gown ; 
oriental in her despotism as in her dress. 

“ So yer hab come ter take a look afore dey tousle eb- 
bery ting up,” she said, marching toward them with pa- 
tronage in every gesture. “ Jes ’serve dat pyramid all ob 
sugar candy, an’ dat heap ob cake white as a tub of curd — 
an’ der glass, twinkling like ice, and de silver baskets a- 
running over wid strawberries, an’ grapes, an’ tings dat 
de Lord never .’tended to grow tergether, an’ dat never 
would if it hadn’t been for dem hot-houses. ’Serve dem 
wines in de ’canters, an’ de regiment ob glasses, red, 
yaller, green. Golly, ain’t it a show ? I w'onders what 
dem ornary folks at de corner ’ill say when I tells ’em 
’bout it ?” 

But Dinah’s eloquence was exhausted in vain. Mrs. 
Ransom scarcely gave a glance at the tables, glittering 
with cut-glass, silver, and china, all laden, and tinted with 
fruits, wines, and rich masses of flowers, glowing out 
from a ground-work of snow. She was too deeply occu- 
pied by her own thoughts to l^eed the picture, beautiful 
as it was. 

“ Humph !” muttered Dinah, as the two women glided 
through her domain, “ der am something in dat ar passage 
of Scripter as tells ’bout feeding pigs wid pearls, and 
t’ings ob dat sort.” 


286 


THE FIRST WALTZ. 


And she consoled herself with a glass of wine, which she 
called three waiters to pour out for her, taking plenty of 
time, as they stood in obsequious attendance, to decide 
on the color of glass which should be honored by an ap- 
proach to her lips. 

Mrs. Ransom followed Hetty Hart into her room. She 
looked around, with interest, as if searching among the 
objects the chamber contained for some idea of its inmate. 
^^othing was there which bespoke individuality. Furni- 
ture, rich in itself, but evidently uncared for, occupied 
such places as the chambermaid appropriated to it. 
There was no home-look, and seemed to be no home- 
feeling in the room. It was a place in which Hetty Hart 
sometimes shut herself up, and that was all. 

“ There is a bed,” said Aunt Hetty, wearily, “ if you 
wish to lie down ; and easy-chairs, if you like them bet- 
ter. Excuse me, but I am unable to talk. This night has 
almost killed me.” 

Aunt Hetty sunk to a couch, as she spoke, and held 
her head between both hands. Mrs. Ransom looked at 
her a moment with strange interest, and at last sat down 
on the couch. 

“ It is no common distress that makes you so weak,” 
she said, very compassionately. “ I have experience, and 
some power ; if any one on earth can help you, confide in 
me. I am to be trusted, believe me.” 

Aunt Hetty dropped her hands, and looked around 
eagerly, as if about to open her heart ; but her counte- 
nance contracted again, and she turned moodily away 
without speaking. 

“And you will not trust me ! According to your own 
account, this nervousness — this vague terror which comes 
and goes on your face — unfits you for a struggle with real 


THE FIKST WALTZ. 287 

difficulties. Why not take counsel then ? Why not take 
help ? Both are offered in good faith.” 

Mrs. Ransom paused; but Aunt Hetty only made a 
faint negative movement of the head. 

“ If money is wanting,” she went on to say. But Aunt 
Hetty gave that same mournful wave of the head. Like 
all weak persons she was obstinate in a negative, and in 
refusing to do any thing could be firm enough. 

Mrs. Ransom was greatly troubled. She saw that 
some positive anxiety preyed upon the helpless creature 
at her side ; and, full of kindness, ardent in her benevo- 
lence, she felt certain of the power to sweep this evil 
aside, could she but learn its nature. 

“ Then you will not speak ?” she said. 

Aunt Hetty became impatient. Of late fits of fretful 
irritability would seize upon her, and she, the. quietest of 
human beings, would repulse kindness almost with insult. 

“I have nothing to tell — nothing to say. Cannot a 
poor woman have a headache, or be a little vexed, without 
the whole world forcing itself upon her ? I don’t know 
you, ma’am. 'God help me I I scarcely know any one. 
In the whole world there never was such a lorn creature. 
They call me an ‘old maid,”’ she added, with a weak 
laugh, “ and you know what fretful creatures they always 
are. ” 

Mrs. Ransom arose and walked the floor. What could 
she effect with a character like that ! With all her genius 
she had no power to overcome that inert obstinacy which 
fear makes strong. Still she could not abandon the poor 
creature, whose sole wish was to conceal that she suffered. 
She sat down again, but Aunt Hetty moved on the couch 
to avoid her. . 

“ Who are you ?” she said, impatiently. “ I ask you 


288 


THE FIRST WALTZ. 


here, because you look tired, but you will neither lie down 
yourself nor let me rest.” 

“I am a lone woman, like yourself.” 

“ Like me I Like me I” 

“Worse I for I cannot be resigned. I struggle and 
suffer : you bow to the storm ; I brave it.” 

“ That is the way Sarah used to talk.” 

“And who was Sarah ?” 

“ My sister. Oh, my God ! my God I why did I men- 
tion her ? What if she were here now I Tell me — for they 
pretend that you know every thing — tell me if spirits 
do come back ? If they ever know what we are doing 
here ? Oh, don’t look at me with those great eyes. I 
have no secret for you to search out. Only tell me this 
one thing.” 

“ I have no knowledge beyond this life — no means of 
knowledge which the Bible does not give to you as well.” 

“ The Bible 1 I will not search that. I have not touched 
the Bible since — almost since I came here.” 

“ B^^d it then.” 

“ No ! no I” 

“ Let me read it for you : it will tranquillize us both.” 

“While the house is shaken with dancers, and wine is 
running like water in the rooms below ! This is no place 
or time for the Bible. Hark ! they are laughing loud 
now 1” 

Mrs. Ransom started up. 

“ No ! that was a shriek — a cry of anguish 1 Great 
heavens ! it comes again I Something has happened I” 
She opened the door and fled down the long passages ; 
but Hetty Hart fell upon the couch and began to moan. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


THE MASTER OP THE FESTIVAL. 

From the moment his guests began to assemble, Mr. 
Bentley, whose delicate organism was but little in keep- 
ing with such scenes, felt himself giving way to a strange, 
nervous depression. The brilliant assembly laughing, 
dancing and chattering around him, seemed like persons in 
a dream, surrounding him with splendid gayety that made 
his heart ache. 

Of all the persons in those rooms but two stood out dis- 
tinct and real before him. Those two were Gillian, his 
beautiful, beautiful daughter, and Mrs. Ransom, the author, 
whose presence became so fascinating, and yet so painfully 
irksome, that every sense and faculty of his being was 
aroused in strange antagonism. Her voice smote his ear 
as something unnatural which he had buried among other 
pains long ago. Her bearing, so proud and imperial, 
seemed to drive back a thousand tender memories that 
disturbed him without taking definite form. But he stood 
in the centre of those princely rooms, apparently calm and 
gracious as became the host of a fashionable assembly. 
Many a gentle hand-clasp, many a smiling welcome, 
passed his lips of which he was but vaguely conscious. 
Though delicate and sensitive beyond ordinary men, he 
had a power of habit — the strong will which conceals what 
the world cannot understand — and these gave to his de- 
18 


289 


290 MASTER OF THE FESTIVAL. 

meaner all that the occasion required — life, politeness, and 
calm elegance. 

But when the guests were all assembled — when the 
music rang out loud, and the floor trembled beneath the 
whirling dancers — when figures flitted two by two in and 
out of the conservatory, coquetting, as it seemed, with the 
flowers, and merriment reigned supreme everywhere — he 
stole away up the grand staircase, and into a little room 
in which he kept a desk and some papers, with a few choice 
books of devotion. This little room was to him an oratory 
of the heart ; the plain table that stood within it, an altar ; 
and the Bible which lay upon that was a guide to that peace 
he never hoped for on earth. 

Every thing was plain and simple in this room. The 
shutters were closed, and a lamp burned on the table. 
A faint hum of the revelry below reached it ; but the 
music was so distant that it sounded mournful to him ; 
and the pale light seemed quiet and serene after the floods 
of brilliancy he had just left. He sat down in a chair 
near the table, and dropping his forehead into the hollow 
of one hand sighed heavily. 

What is this?” he murmured, audibly. “Has time, 
which works wonders to other men, no power with me ? 
Years piled on years are insufficient to build a wall between 
me and that miserable time. What has chanced to-night ? 
Who has crossed me in any thing, that I feel this dreary 
old pain come back so sharply ? I did think — God help 
me I — I did think that this fete would do something for me, 
that in the triumph and beauty of my child some little 
ray of joy or ambition might come back ; but it is a failure. 
God help me ! my whole life has been a failure.” 

The hand which supported his forehead slid down to his 
eyes ; the quivering fingers pressed themselves together 


MASTER OF THE FESTIVAL. 291 

an instant, and then were quickly withdrawn ; while two 
or three bright drops flashed by the lamp and settled darkly 
on the table, the rain of a heavy heart. 

While his eyes were yet misty with tears, a footstep ap- 
proached the door of his retreat — a heavy footstep that had no 
business there, for in that room Mr. Bentley never received 
message or visitor. There was not a servant in the family 
who would have dared to approach him while in that part 
of the house. With the quick impatience which follows 
hidden grief of any kind, he turned upoil his chair and 
looked almost fiercely at the door. It opened, and young 
Hurst came in, smiling blandly, as if certain of a pleasant 
welcome. 

“ I saw you retire from the drawing-room,” he said, “ and 
made an attempt to follow you earlier ; and but for a little 
scene in the hall between your pretty niece and some per- 
son in the costume of a rustic, who saw fit to question my 
right to waltz with her cheek so close to mine, I should 
have accomplished it.” 

Mr. Bentley arose from his chair, resting one hand upon 
the back. There was no other seat in the- room, and he 
made no gesture to offer that. On the contrary, a look of 
repelling surprise met the flippancy of this speech. 

“ Sit down,” said Hurst, blandly. “ I did not expect a 
very cordial reception, but this is unpleasantly chilling. 
Sit down, sir. I will occupy a corner of the table while we 
converse, for I really have a little business which you 
must listen to.” 

While Mr. Bentley stood looking sternly upon him, 
Hurst pushed the Bible aside and seated himself upon the 
table, where he locked his hands over one knee, resting 
his heel on the edge. ^ 

'‘Yes,” he said, pleasantly, “ I have business important 


292 


EE OF THE FESTIVAL. 


to me, for it is a question of some millions of dollars — 
how many you will tell me by-and-by. Sit down, sir, I 
entreat : this conversation will be long enough to tire you 
out, unless you set a lighter value on my father’s fortune 
than I can reasonably expect.” 

Mr. Bentley stood confounded by the young man’s in- 
solence. He was no pugilist to turn him out by force, 
and it was easy to see that the man before him was inac- 
cessible to moral influences. He turned quietly, and was 
about to leave the room ; but Hurst sprang up and dashed 
between him and the door, which he locked. 

Retreating toward the table, with the key grasped tight 
in one hand, his whole countenance changed. The flip- 
pant air with which he had entered fled, and he confronted 
Mr. Bentley with a face as pale and stern as his own. 

“ I come on a serious business, sir, and will be heard I” 

Mr. Bentley sat down. “If you have any business 
that can possibly excuse this intrusion, I am ready to 
listen.” 

Hurst did not sit on the table now, but leaned upon 
it with one hand, which brought his face more nearly 
on a level with Mr. Bentley’s : for a moment he did not 
speak. 

“ I am waiting,” said Mr. Bentley, with grave courtesy. 

Hurst hesitated, and the hand upon which he leaned 
seemed to give way, for his whole body wavered ; and 
his voice was so husky that he made one or two efforts to 
speak before he could utter a word. 

“ You — you had a cousin, sir, I believe — a cousin from 
whom you inherited all the fortune you possess ?” 

Mr. Bentley made a faint inclination of the head. 

“ But for this property you would have been, like my- 
self, a poor young fellow living on his wits.” ; 


MASTER OF THE FESTIVAL. 293 

Mr. Bentley smiled. “ But for .tbat property I might 
have been a poor young fellow ; but not, according to 
your meaning, living on my wits. While there was 
honest labor to perform I should have lived by that I” 
Every one to his taste. Let us keep close to the real 
subject. The wealth you inherited from your cousin is 
all you now own.” 

So far as property can be unchangeable, yes. But 
unless these questions have a grave object, they are more 
than impertinent.” 

‘‘ Your Cousin Bentley was killed, I believe, on his way 
to the old homestead in Bockland county — a farm at that 
time mortgaged to him — killed by the upsetting of his 
carriage !” 

Mr. Bentley grew ashen with the terrible recollection. 
He could not speak, the picture of that death had been 
so rudely placed before him ; his head fell forward, and 
Hurst seized upon that as a confirmation of what he had 
asserted. He went on, harshly dragging the sensitive 
nature before him over the thorny past. 

“ When the elder Bentley left New York for Bockland 
county, did he tell you why he visited the old farm- 
house ?” 

Bentley arose from his chair pale as death. 

“Young man, how dare you question me of these mat- 
ters ? By what right ” 

He paused and drew back, trembling from head to foot. 
Something in the face of the young man struck him to the 
heart. It might have been in the expression — it might 
have been in the features ; but something there was which 
held his breath and left him weak as a child. 

Hurst smiled ; he saw the paleness of that face, and im- 


294 MASTEB OF THE FESTIVAL. 

derstood the sudden suspicion that had seized upon the 
proud man, and felt it as a triumph. 

“ I question you of my father’s death. Who will dis- 
pute the privilege of a son to seek knowledge 

“ Your father 1” 

The words came from his lips like fiery coals ; the 
white face blazed out, and Bentley sprang upon the young 
man strong and fierce as a tiger. “Your father! — her 
child I Great God ! save me from myself — save me — 
save me from murdering this thing !” ^ 

He fell back in his chair, with great beads of sweat 
trembling on his forehead ; something of the gladiator 
broke from his eyes ; and over his whole countenance 
came a look of unutterable loathing. 

“ What do you ask ? Tell me what I can do or give to 
save my eyes from that face again 

“You have nothing to give, sir. It is I who can play 
the benefactor — I, whom you have wronged out of name, 
property, every thing — I, the son of your Cousin Bentley, 
the just owner of his property, the master of this house.” 

“Property, name — take every thing, more than every 
thing ; but if you would not make me a murderer, out of 
this room ! out of my sight forever !” cried Bentley, 
shaking with terrible passion. “ I cannot restrain my- 
self: the sight of you makes a demon of me.” 

“ If the very dread of poverty makes a fiend of you, 
its reality has not left me quite an angel, so beware how 
you carry insult too far !” said Hurst, in a voice made 
low and hoarse with rage. 

Bentley sprang forward again with his arm outstretched 
and fiecks of foam on his white lips. Hurst stepped 
aside, and the pale hand clenched in rage fell upon the 
Bible. Instantly the passion left that face, the drops 


MASTER OF THE FESTIVAL. 


295 


again started on the white forehead, and lowering his 
head Bentley cried out, “ God forgiVe me ! — oh ! my 
God, forgive me I” 

Then all was calm again. He sat down feebly, pressed 
one hand over his eyes, and looked up without shrinking. 

“ I can listen now,” he said. “ Be more explicit. You 
claim to be the son of William Bentley, if I heard you 
aright ?” 

“ His son and heir, his only son, his legal heir.” 

A look of something more than astonishment shot over 
Bentley’s face — a gleam that seemed almost like joy. 
Hurst looked upon him amazed by the impression made 
by words with which he had expected to crush the proud 
man. 

“ Was he married to her ?” 

Do you require proof ?” 

“Proof I yes, positive, incontestible proof — nothing less 
should convict me as the cold-blooded tyrant I have been.” 

“ They will be forthcoming,” said Hurst, surprised and 
hesitating. 

“ Now — now, sir — if such proof exists — if you are his 
child — his legal son — give me a certainty of it.” 

“ And will you then yield up my rights ?” 

This question was put in a low voice, and with a quail- 
ing of the eye of which Bentley, in his excitement, was 
unmindful. 

“ Your rights ! Oh, you mean this property — Wil- 
liam’s property,” answered Bentley, in a vague way, as 
if that branch of the subject had but just presented itself. 
“ Who can doubt it ? Her child — her lawful son — who 
can doubt it ? But the proof— the proof !” 

Hurst turned pallid — his hand shook perceptibly as it 
approached an inner pocket of his vest. Bentley’s eyes 


2V)6 MASTER OF THE FESTIVAL. 

followed the hand so keenly that it seemed to wither 
beneath his glance, and fell down powerless. Bentley 
was white as snow ; eyes, lips, and forehead — all were full 
of intense anxiety. When Hurst’s hand fell he uttered a 
faint groan, as if disappointed. 

“It is false then — all false — you have no such proof,” 
he said, in a trembling voice. “ It is cruel, sir, more than 
cruel, to raise such hopes wantonly.” 

“ Hopes ! Mr. Bentley ?” 

“Peace, sir! Do not dare to mock me again with 
romances, I have bad enough of them. If it’s not all a lie, 
say it at once ; but remember I want facts, proofs — such 
facts, such proofs as a judge upon the bench decides 
from.” 

“ They are here I” said Hurst, huskily, and drawing 
some papers from his pocket he laid them on the table. 

Mr. Bentley looked on the papers a whole minute, 
without moving or seeming to breathe ; then he slowly 
reached forth his hand, drawing one of the papers toward 
him. He hejd it between both hands, and slowly lowered 
it to the light. The paper dropped from his grasp, both 
hands were pressed to his heart, and falling back, Bentley 
uttered the cry which had startled Mrs. Ransom in Aunt 
Hetty’s room. 

Hurst stood a moment, gazing vaguely on the stricken 
man, who neither moved nor breathed. The sight of that 
paper seemed to be his death-blow. He lay prone in the 
chair, with one hand on his heart, the other falling 
heavily down. His lips were white, his eyes closed — 
nothing could have been more deathly. 

Hurst was too much excited for judicious action. He 
really believed the man dead, and, selBsh always, be- 
thought himself first of his own safety. It would lead to 


MASTER OF THE FESTIVAL. 297 

awkward questions if he were found alone with the mas- 
ter of that house either insensible or dead. He must get 
awaj and mingle with the crowd. Life would return to 
the helpless form before him, if it still existed ; if not, 
there could be no use in his remaining. 

With these thoughts chasing each other through his 
selfish brain, Hurst gave one frightened glance at that 
pale face, and left the room ; for he heard footsteps ap- 
proaching, and fled like a coward. 

Yes, he heard footsteps approaching. Down through 
the dim corridor, breathless and eager, came a woman 
following the sound of that one cry, with a flight as sure 
as that of a mother bird when its young chirps for help. 
The pale, wild face shone out in contrast with the gor- 
geous antiquity of the dress, and the ghostly wave of 
white feathers kept the shadows in motion around her 
head. With an intuition keen as knowledge, Julia Ran- 
som turned to the study door, opened it, and found Bent- 
ley apparently dead in his chair. 

With a cry of terrible anguish, she bent oyer him and 
lifted his pale head to her bosom. She had no restorative 
— nothing but the touch of her trembling hands, and the 
breath of her lips. But she held him close, close to her 
bosom with both arms; and down upon his cold mouth 
she pressed her own, concentrating all the strength and 
warmth of her life to restore his. 

Then she would draw back and look down upon the 
face, with such wild, wild terror in her glances, that they 
might have aroused a dead heart to beating. For the first 
time since we have known this w’oman the whole force of 
her nature broke forth, transfiguring her utterly. 

Again she pressed her lips to the*cold mouth, and laid 
her hand on the still heart. It beat very, very faintly ; 


298 MASTER OF THE FESTIVAL. 

but life was there. She was seized with terror at this, 
and grew still, holding her breath with a fear that he 
would come to and find his head on her bosom. She had 
no courage to remove it — no power to hush the swell of 
her own heart. All that she asked was that he should 
remain a little longer in that deathly state — a little longer 
resting there against her heart. So she held her breath, 
and grudgingly loosened her clasped arms, looking down 
upon him with such yearning — such intense, passionate 
tenderness. 

What spirit of love and mercy was it that held those 
numb senses back according to her wish ? Once the breath 
swelled softly in his chest, and the flutter of a pulse stirred 
his wrist, but Bentley neither opened his eyes nor at- 
tempted to move. Nay, as she gazed upon his face, illu- 
minating it with her glances, it seemed as if a smile stole 
over the features. It might have been the lamp-light 
flickering over them, but certainly the coldness was gone. 

Yes, the color came back — the smile parted his lips. 
He began to struggle faintly, and opened his eyes. He 
was alone in the room. The lamp shone and fluttered, as 
if a draught of air had swept it, but there was no visible 
presence. 

Bentley stood up and looked around. Was it in truth 
a dream ? Had he slept in his chair and been haunted 
with old memories ? That scene with Hurst — was it a 
cheat of uneasy slumber ? The circling arms, the heave 
of that full heart, the kisses which still seemed glowing i 
on his mouth — had his youth come back in the mockery 
of a vision ? 

Certainly, it must be so ! What man or woman would 
dare to enter that room ? Yes, it was all a dream— the 
offshoot of excitement and exhaustion. Strange, though, i 


MASTEK OF THE FESTIVAL. 299 

that young Hurst, a man in whom he had taken no in- 
terest, should have so wildly figured there ; as for the rest, 
God help the unhappy man ! it was only in sleep that his 
head could ever rest as it had done that night. All the 
joy he had gathered for years had been such husks stolen 
from delusions. No, no, it was all of a piece. He had 
been asleep and dreaming. 

But, the sound of distant music — the tread of light feet 
vibrating through the entire building — the hum as of 
swarming bees — his own dress so elaborately rich — the 
white gloves which he had drawn off and laid on the table : 
these were realities. Then came the opening of that 
door — the young man sitting insolently on the table — the 
papers : no dream was ever so vivid as that. The rest 
was indistinct — a cheat of the heart ; but this portion — 
why did it stand out so vividly ? 

While he pondered thus his eyes fell on the floor, and 
there lay a paper exactly like those he had been thinking 
of. He stooped, and held it to the light. It was a letter, 
old and yellow, directed to the Rev. J. Frost in her hand- 
writing. 

He looked wildly around. Some one had been there 
in his room. The papers were real. That letter — he had 
seen such before — one in the same handwriting, but with 
the name of a dead man, for the address had crushed all the 
joy from his life. He could not read this yellow old letter 
fluttering in his hand. What had he to learn ? Why 
torture himself by duplicatory proofs against the dead ? 

But then came another memory — another paper — some- 
thing that had stricken the very life from his system. 
Was that a reality ? 

At first he was seized with an impulse to rush down 
and find this man Hurst, who undoubtedly held some 


300 MARTHA’S FIRST POLKA. 

power that was terrible over the past and the future ; but 
dread of finding the vague idea that had seized lipon him 
a delusion, kept him back. Besides, a sense of exhaustion 
still lay heavily upon him. He had neither the power to 
think nor act. So there he sat, with the paper in his hand, 
conscious that it was real, but unbelieving. It seemed 
impossible to separate what was true from that which 
must have been a delusion. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

MARTHA hart’s FIRST POLKA. 

In the meantime the rooms below had been the scene ; 
of some little revolt. Late in the evening a young man, ^ 
in the holiday costume of a country farmer, had presented | 
himself in the hall. Old Dinah, who was ubiquitous that ] 
evening, saw the young man, and gave him a welcome | 
that quite astonished the other servants, who had re- | 
marked, hitherto, that her approbation was graduated by < 
the splendor of costume which each visitor presented. 
But here was an exception ; and Dinah not only conde- ■ 
scended to receive the farmer guest, but preceded him, with 
her flowing dress and turban, through the suit of rooms, i 
watching his amazement triumphantly, as if the whole 
establishment had been her own individual property. 

As they passed into the drawing-room, Dinah halted. 

“ Dar !” she said, pointing to a couple that flitted in and 
out among the dancers, “there’s her whizzin’ ’bout like' 
a top. Wait jes one minute, and I’ll cotch her.’^ i 


Martha’s first polka. 


301 


What, that I — that girl with the bare arms and white 
shoulders I That girl, my — my — look here, old snow-ball, 
none of that, for I won’t stand it !” 

Dinah drew up, and her nose curled, in a small way, like 
the trunk of an elephant. 

Ole snow-ball I Well, dar, if dem isn’t words to come 
out ob a gemman’s mout’ in de presence ob de fair sect, an’ 
in scenes ob festialities like dis. If ’twasn’t for despairing 
de blum ob my ’plexion, I’d blush for yer ; as de ’casion is, 
I dus dat inside, hi I” 

The young man did not heed her, but pushed forward 
into the crowd, where he could gain a better view of the 
dancers. A scene like that had never presented itself to 
the young countryman before. He had seen dancing, in a 
pleasant way, at a Fourth of July ball, and sometimes at 
an apple cut or husking, where tidy young girls, in white 
dresses and colored ribbons, went through a French four, 
or opera reel, with a certain rustic grace ; but the scene 
before him was new even to his imagination : the whirl, 
the music, the euphonious tread of the dancers, the float- 
ing plumes, and cloud-like dresses bewildered, while the 
dance itself repulsed him. In all this crowd his eyes 
followed one couple only ; and as they grew familiar to 
the scene, the color deepened on his ruddy cheek, and his 
eyes glittered with rage. 

The polka, that most frivolous of all dances, had been 
introduced into society that season, making the old- 
fashioned waltz a puritanical affair in comparison. Into 
this last French inspiration the more reckless of the 
company had plunged, rushing up and down the room in 
pairs, stifling the first idea of an old-fashioned shuffle in 
its premonitory symptoms, and giving every indication of 
beginning some rather elaborate dance'which failed utterly 


302 


maktha’s first polka. 


in the completion. Tall men bent themselves into the 
form of an ancient bow, in order to clasp short ladies by 
the waist ; and diminutive youngsters looked pert as 
quails, while aspiring to lift their shoulders to a conve- 
nient level for the queenly race of dancers. 

' Altogether the exhibition was a graceless affair in every 

way ; and men of less inherent delicacy than John Downs 

might well have changed color on seeing it for the first 

time. The poor fellow grew red and white every instant, 

for there was pretty Martha Hart — ^the plump, wholesome, 

little Hebe — circled by the arm of a handsome young 

fellow, with her arm half round his neck, her cheek warm , 

and red, leaning to his stooping face, her eyes sparkling, 

her heart panting beneath the pressure of his hand. 

Breaking up her steps and giving her pretty foot a stamp 

now and then, she whirled off like a rocket or went rush- i 

\ 

ing like mad toward the conservatory, and back again into | 
the crowd, all in a frenzy of motion, which ended in noth- 
ing but a repetition of the same silly manoeuvre. \ 

jS'o wonder John Downs could not bear the sight — no 
wonder he thought of the time when, standing on the | 
deck of that steamer, he had trembled while pressing the | 
hand to his lips, which now lay so lovingly on a stranger’s 
shoulder. His breath came heavily, his eyes gleamed, 
and he stood with his hand clenched hard, panting to ^ 
knock the man down on the instant, and only withheld by { 
the fact that half a score of other men were giving coun- 
tenance to this impudent fellow’s audacity. 

Gillian was not dancing ; she had practised the polka ^ 
with Martha many a time, but that exquisite delicacy 
which springs from new-born love made her shrink from 
it now. So leaning upon Woodworth’s arm, she moved , 


MAETHA’S FIKST POLKA. 


303 


away among her guests, diffusing some of the bright hap- 
piness which glowed in her own heart all around. 

She saw John Downs standing alone watching the 
dancers. It had been a kind thought with her when she 
sent a card for her ball to Martha’s lover, hoping to sur- 
prise the dear girl into happiness like her own. But a 
glance from that wrathful face to the young girl and 
Michael Hurst, her partner, betrayed the mistake she had 
innocently made. With an anxious flush on her face, she 
went up to the young countryman, holding out her hand. 

‘‘Ah, Mr. Downs, how glad I am that you accepted my 
invitation I” 

Downs started and took her hand softly, as if it had 
been a white rose, from which he feared the leaves would 
fall away. 

“Ah, Miss, I — I didn’t know what it was — I didn’t 
expect ” 

He broke off abruptly, and dropping her hand, turned 
his face away. 

“ Have you seen my father ?” 

“No, Miss, I haven’t seen anybody, that is to speak of, 
except old Dinah, and she went off in a huff.” 

Gillian laughed sweetly, and quitting Woodworth’s arm 
with a little imperative nod, took possession of the 
stranger. 

“ Come now, we will find him somewhere ; by that time 
Cousin Matty will be through with her first polka.” 

“ Her what ?” 

“ Why, the dance you were looking at — we have prac- 
tised it together so often. She never danced it with any 
one but me before ; but ladies cannot dance together here, 
you know, and I was watching to see how she got on with 
^unt Hetty’s young friend — almost a relation, I might say, 


304 


Martha’s first polka. 


for Aunt Hetty has known him since he was a boy, I 
believe — I am quite sure the dear old lady would not have 
been satisfied if Martha hadn’t danced with him.” 

“ Then it is to please Miss Hetty Hart that she dances 
this new fandangle ?” 

“ I’m sure of it !” said Gillian, leading him away. 

Downs turned his head over one shoulder and cast a 
lingering glance at the dancers. 

“ She — she don’t seem in great trouble about it — she’s 
willing enough. I’ll be bound I” he said, with a gust of 
jealousy. “ But I might have known how it would end.” 

Gillian felt a throb of compassion for the poor fellow. 


“ What a terrible thin^it must be to doubt any one I” she 
thought. “ Besides, Martha does plunge into gayety this 
evening like a child. What shall I do ?” 

She was quietly forcing her companion away from the^ 
room, but he checked her near the conservatory, and wheel- 
ing round looked back upon the dancers. The music 
changed, Martha left the floor, it seemed a little reluc- 
tantly, for she shook her head and pouted, while Hurst 
searched for a seat and left her. 

“ One minute — please excuse me one minute. Miss 
Bentley ; but I must speak with that chap before he gets 
away I” 

Before Gillian could speak. Downs had dropped her 
hand from his arm, and hurried away through tl;ie crowd, 
following Hurst, who was softly stealing towards the ves- 
tibule, intent on the interview with Mr. Bentley which 
we have just described. Downs overtook him just as he 
was about to mount the stairs, and laid a heavy hand on his 
arm. 

I say, you sir, just one word. I’ve been watching 


'f 


MARTHA S FIRST POLKA. 305 

your way of dancing with a respectable man’s daughter, 
and I don’t like it. Do you understand ?” 

Hurst looked back at his questioner, laughed a little 
quiet laugh, and said : 

“ What the deuce do I care whether you Ijke it or 
not ?” 

“But I will make you care, Mr. Jackanapes. The 
young lady is a — a friend of mine — or at any rate, her 
father is — and I won’t see her innocent nature imposed 
on by any of you city gentlemen.” 

“ Oh ! I see you are a real countryman — no fancy cha- 
racter — an admirer of Miss Martha’s, perhaps — no one 
could act the part so well With all my heart : I have no 
wish to interfere with you.” 

The ypung man spoke contemptuously, but with an evi- 
dent wish to get rid of the whole thing. 

“ Then you have no interest ? You don’t care for the 
young lady ?” 

“Not a particle. Shouldn’t care if she disappeared 
from the face of the earth in half an hour ; so don’t bore 
me about her, my good fellow.” 

Downs clenched his hand, while his face burned like 
fire. 

“And it is with a fellow like you she — she — I tell you 
what, this air don’t suit me. I never was so tempted to 
I lock horns with an animal in my whole life !” 
j “ Why, my dear sir, what have I done ? Danced the 
I polka — a confounded insipid affair, by-the-way — with a 
i pretty girl who would never have forgiven me if I had 
inot asked her. Go quarrel with her if you are in a par- 
ticularly belligerent humor, for the fact is, she tired me 
out ; I cannot boast of your athletic strength !” 

% That’s true,” said Downs, unclasping his hand, and 

* 19 


806 


MARTHA’S FIRST POLKA 


looking very much like a great Newfoundland dog pitted 
against a terrier. ‘‘You arn’t worth whipping, and wouldn’t 
a-been worth minding but for the wrong you’ve done.” 

“ Wrong I Now, my good fellow, do be reasonable. 
What harm is there in dancing the polka with a pretty 
girl ?” 

“ What is the harm in brushing all the down from a 
ripe peach just as it takes its last red from the sun ? 
What’s the harm in dashing the purple dew from a plum ? 
What’s the harm of setting a coarse foot into new-fallen 
snow, that other coarse feet may tread after you ? I’m a 
plain man, a farmer, and in driving cattle I get a rough 
way of speaking ; but I’d as soon steal the blue eggs 
from a robin’s nest, as lead any girl into exhibiting her- 
self, as you have tempted the sweetest, the most innocent 
— Oh Jupiter I if you only had the muscle of a man, I’d 
break every bone in your body I” 

“ But only having a slight frame, and no inclination for 
battle, you will be good enough to let me pass on ; espe- 
cially as the servants are amusing themselves with your 
gestures and rather loud conversation.” 

Downs looked around, and saw that a group of idle 
waiters had gathered near them ; and in their midst stood 
Aunt Dinah grimly regarding him. With a lofty shake 
of the turban she came forward. 

“ Now I isn’t gwine ter see yer maken an obstreperous 
fool ob yerself and not ’pose my ’thority, if yer did call 
me olprobationary names,” she said, with an accession of 
dignity, that, in spite of his annoyance, made Downs 
laugh. “Ain’t yer ’shamed ob yerself, a-bringin’ up den 
apperlations ob ’spectable young ladies to raise a muss 
’bout? I’m ’shamed an’ ’stonished, I is, John Downs; 
whar’s yer ’scretion ? wbar’s yer broughten up — whar ?” 


MARTHA’S FIRST POLKA. 


807 


Under cover of this authoritative remonstrance, which 
edified the waiters immensely, Hurst made his escape, 
and from that scene went into the private room of Mr. 
Bentley, whose very existence seemed shaken by that 
visit. 

Downs returned to the festal rooms ashamed of his re- 
cent outbreak, and anxious to apologize for the rudeness 
of his departure from Miss Bentley : perhaps, too, he 
hoped that some excuse or explanation of Martha’s offence 
might meet him. So, in a state of contrition, and but 
half-subdued excitement, he went into the library and was 
swept on by the living current that crowded through the 
rooms. All at once he Jan^ upon Gillian. She was 
standing with one arm around the naughty flower-girl, 
who looked very subdued and depressed, like a child that 
had been unexpectedly called up for punishment in the 
midst of play. 

John took a little circuit in the crowd, and came close 
up to the young girls as ^lijy stood together. All his 
anger had left him at the sight of that pretty, clouded 
face, and compunction for his violence rendered him dif- 
fident as if he had been the culprit. He dared not speak, 
nor touch her, but stood holding his breath, afraid to 
move. 

What did you let him go for ? How could he act so 
I; unfeelingly ? It’s too bad I’^ There was a sob in Martha’s 
I voice, and she began biting the corner of her embroidered 
! handkerchief in sorrowful an^er, repeating again and 
i again, “ It’s too bad — it’s too bad !” ^ 

I John’s heart rushed to his mouth, and he was about to 
1 speak, when Martha broke forth again; ^ 

I i “ I wish you hadn’t invited him.” 

I *^Who ?” said Gilliap, ‘‘Michagl Hurst?” 


308 


MARTHA’S FIRST POLKA. 


Michael Hurst I No, but John Downs.” 

Here John shrunk back with a heart like lead. 

** But I thought it would give you pleasure — that you 
liked him.” 

John did not breathe 

What is the good of liking him ?” cried Martha, with 
tears in her eyes. “ He hates, he despises me, and all 
because of that hateful Hurst, just as if I cared for him or 
thought of him ; a post would have been just the same if 
it kept step. I’m sure.” 

Again Downs felt his heart rising. 

I never thought of him once while we were rushing 
about there. It seemed nice, enough when you and I 
practised : didn’t you think so, Gillian ? and now I can’t 
bear the idea of it. Oh, how I hate that Mike Hurst !” 

John Downs was trembling all over now. His quick 
breath caught Gillian’s attention : a glance and she stole 
away. 

“Martha.” J * 

Martha Hart gave a dainty shriek, and struggled a 
little to get her hand away from the strong fingers that | 
grasped it. ' 

“ I — I wonder how you dare, Mr. Downs. I thought 
you had gone for good — indeed I hoped so.” 

“It is not too late, Martha,” said the young man, ,; 
forgetting, in the pain of her present coquetry, the words , 
she had uttered a moment before, “ Good-night I” % 

Martha, looked frightened; her fingers clung around his;'; 

Si 

and she gave him^a glance from her fine eyes that would t 
have brought an eagle to her feet. || 

“ "^es, go. Good-night !” cried the little rogue, tight*-!, 
ening her clasp, “ go.” |j! 


/ 

Martha’s first polka. 


809 


John struggled a little, as you have seen a fly with all 
his feet tangled in a spider’s web. v 

‘‘ Perhaps you wish to dance again 

“ Yes,” said Martha, demurely, “ I’m so very, very fond 
of dancing.” 

‘‘ Yery well !” 

Here Downs made a great struggle, tore his hand from 
her clasp, and smitten with instantaneous repentance, gave 
it back again. 

Yes,” she said, taking the truant hand, as if she did 
not know what to do with it, “ I’m very fond of dancing ; 
if one could only get a partner worth while ; you never 
dance, I suppose ?” 

“ Who told you so, Martha ? Yes, I do.” 

“ Yes, French fours, the Yirginia reel, and all that,” 
cried the little vixen, with a lift of her white shoulders, 

skim milk !” 

“ I rather think I could go a notch higher than that,” 
said Downs, proudly. 

“ Ha ! «what, you ?” cried Martha, brightening, but in- 
stantly her countenance fell. 

“ Quadrilles, perhaps.” 

Downs nodded. 

But they are so stiff after ” 

“After waltzing ?” 

“Yes, after waltzing I” 

“ But I know the step. I — I’ve been to dancing-school, 
and used to waltz with, with ” 

“A pretty girl, I dare say — some lady that I’ve never 
heard of,” cried Martha, pouting. 

“No, never — I waltzed with the other boys — only with 
boys, I promise you.” 

“And you wouldn’t like it,” said Martha, glancing 


310 MARTHA’S FIRST POLKA. 

down to her waist ; “ you prefer great awkward boys, I 
dare say.” 

Downs blushed to the temples, as his eyes followed her 
suggestive glance. 

“ Will you ?” he said, trembling all over, and stealing 
'one arm round her waist. 

Martha’s eyes flashed under the long lashes like dia- 
monds. 

“ There, put out your foot this way ; that’s right now.” 

Away the pair whirled through the boudoir, and into 
the library, which was almost empty, but they had scarcely 
gone a round when the music changed. Martha kept 
close to her partner. “ There, break step this way ; try 
again ; how awkward you are I Now, now, that’s splen- 
did ; through this ^oor into the drawing-room; one has 
more confidence in a crowd. Now for it.” 

“Dear — what’s that?” cried Gillian, as a couple came 
sweeping by the place where she was standing with a 
velocity that stirred the air, and sent her vail flashing 
around her like a cloud. “ What on earth does that 
mean ?” 

“ Oh,” said Woodworth, laughing, “ it’s only Miss Hart 
with another captive in full training ; see, isn’t the little 
rogue brilliantly happy ?” 

That moment Martha, who had stopped for breath, gave 
Gillian 'a pretty, triumphant nod, while she dropped a 
hand on her partner’s shoulder. 

“Captive !” said Gillian, laughing brightly, as the. pair 
rushed by again ; “ he seems resigned, at any rate. Oh, 
there comes young Hurst ; I thought he had gone ; it is 
full half an hour since I saw him go up-stairs ; I hope 
there will be no trouble about Cousin Martha. See how 
disturbed he looks.” 

f 


MARTHA S FIRST POLKA. 


311 


“ Yes,” said Woodworth, “ but it is not on her account. 
There, he has just caught sight of her among the dancers ; 
upon my word, he is smiling ; the whole thing amuses 
him evidently. So, my queen, you need have no appre- 
hension from that quarter, Hurst loves himself too much 
for unnecessary quarrels. Look, he is going to speak with 
them ; how pale the fellow is, though.” 

“ With jealous rage, perhaps,” said Gillian, struck with 
the strange look of Hurst’s face. 

^‘Nothing of the kind, fair lady I I fancy that feeling;^ 
would be aroused in this direction ; I’m not quite blind if ' 
you are silent I That young man cares no more for Miss 
Hart than you do about the rose-leaves dropping from 
your bouquet ; watch how quietly he addresses them I” 

. Hurst had in reality sauntered up to the dancers as they 
stood still for a moment. 

“ Oh, Miss Martha I you must be spending a heavenly 
evening ; it quite wakes one up to see you dance : what 
power you ladies have I How, I dare say this young 
gentleman, to whom I haven’t been introduced, by-the- 
way, has forgotten all about the bloom from ripe 'peaches, 
the purple dew from plums, and the tread of coarse feet 
in newly-fallen snow, ha !” 

Hurst had mistaken his man. Downs was. not to be 
quietly brow-beaten after that fashion, though the crimson 
did flash over his face. 

“It makes a difl’erence,” he said, looking at Martha; 
“my hand is not that of a, stranger. Come, Miss Hart, 
shall we join in the inarch ?” • 

“ It is for the supper-room. Where is Gillian ? Where 
can Uncle Bentley have hid himself this long time ?” 

Gillian was asking the same question. Where was her 
father ? Where had Mrs. Ransom and Aunt Hetty Hart 


312 


MARTHA’S FIRST POLKA. 


gone ? No one could tell ; but Dinah volunteered to make 
inquiries while her young mistress represented the family 
in the supper-room. Directly she came back with word 
that Mr. Bentley was asleep in his little study — sound 
asleep, she was sure, for his arms were folded on the table, 
and his face buried in them ; ^besides, he neither spoke nor 
moved when she asked him to come down — a piece of im- 
politeness which Dinah knew to be impossible had he been 
awake. 

“Poor, dear papa!” sighed Gillian, “this confusion has 
been too much for him ; let him rest : we must find some 
excuse for his absence.” Thus, with a little tender regret, 
Gillian entered the supper-room, leaning on the arm of 
her betrothed. 

There is something really beautiful in an artistically- 
arranged table, which admits of an endless variety of form 
and tints ; the glitter of crystal, the frosted gleam of plate, 
the glow of purple, amber, and ruby-hued fruits,* snow- 
white pyramids of cake, pagodas of golden-hued candy, 
and a thousand luscious trifles imbedded in flowers and 
sharing their perfume, take all the combinations of a vast 
picture gorgeously lighted up. 

In this house the supper-room, in all its prodigal mag- 
nificence, was duplicated by tall mirrors, each fitting the 
arch of a diminutive colonnade, separated from the room 
itself by a line of light Corinthian pillars, around which 
blossoming vines from the green-house had been trained 
for the occasion. These vines, multiplied by the mirrors 
behind, and emitting a delicate perfume, formed a suc- 
cession of living garlands that trembled in the clear, soft 
light, while a bay window at the upper end of the room 
was a perfect bower of tropical leaves and blossoms. 

Into this room the company flowed from the drawing- 


MARTHA’S FIRST POLKA. 313 

room and vestibule. Behind the graceful shelter of the 
pillars the ladies retreated, gathering into close groups, 
which the tall mirrors answered back, till the gay mul- 
titude seemed twice its real size, and the scene resembled 
the gathering of a court in some royal palace, more 
closely than any thing ever attempted on this side the At- 
lantic. 

For a little time the picture was sumptuously grand : 
even the waiters hesitated to break up the gorgeous rich- 
ness of the tables ; but appetite in a crowd will always 
drive taste to the wall. The first bunch of hot-house 
grapes lifted from its silver dish was the signal for a score 
of descending hands ; towers of ice-cream began to tremble ; 
jellies that lay like masses of amber in beds of cut crystal, 
were cleft in a dozen pieces, and sent off to all parts of 
the room ; fruits that science alone could have forced into 
ripeness at the same time, loaded the plates of delicate 
Sevres china, which passed from the tables back to the 
fair hands beyond. But there is no pleasure in describing 
the scene now — the flash of crystal goblets, the explo- 
sions of champagne, the broken pyramids and ruined 
towers. Every thing was broken up, fruit blossoms and 
ices fell into interminable confusion ; that which intellect 
and taste had been weeks in creating, appetite seized upon, 
rent in pieces and swept away in a single hour. 

In the midst of the scene, while the scent of flowers 
was overborne by the breath of a crowd of revellers, and 
the flash of champagne broke the hum and laughter around, 
Gillian was startled by a whisper close to her ear. 

“The moment these people depart, go to your father; 
he is in the little study !” 

Gillian turned quickly, but no one whom she knew in- 
timately enough for a confidential whisper like that stood 


814 


MAKTHA S FIRST POLKA. 


near. Still the whisper troubled her. She must run 
away for a moment; no one would miss her in that con- 
fusion : perhaps her father was ill. 

Gillian had not entered her father’s private study half a 
dozen times in her whole life. It was considered sacred 
to her father, who was always remarked to retire into its 
seclusion whenever those deep fits of sadness came upon 
him to which he had been subject ever since her remem- 
brance. A feeling of tender sorrow always came upon 
her when she thought of her father in that place, and she 
approached it with a sinking heart. 

A light knock at the door brought no answer. She 
turned the latch softly and looked in. Her father sat by 
the table with an old letter in his hand, which he was 
pondering over in deep thought. 

“ Papa !” 

Bentley started, and looked round. 

Gillian 1” His voice was troubled. 

“ Papa ! come down, if you are not quite tired out ; 
the company will soon be going away.” 

“ Not yet, my child ; it is not time !” 

“ Indeed, father, it is very late. I have taken leave of 
some alread}’’ ; and it is very awkward, you know, to be 
so entirely by myself : even Mrs. Hansom, whom I de- 
pended on, forsakes me. I haven’t seen her these two 
hours. Do come, papa, and show yourself, if it is only for 
ten minutes.” 

“ Hush 1 Gillian. Ask nothing of me yet. I m«st 
have one other interview with this young man. If this 
proves true, why then, Gillian — then — but I am talking 
vaguely,” Bentley continued, lifting a hand to his fore- 
head, “do not mind me, child, but go down.” 

“ And you will not come, dear father ?” 


MARTHA’S FIRST POLKA. 815 

Not to-night ; I am very busy. Don’t you see how 
busy I am ?” 

Gillian went into the room, and leaned over her father. 
She had never seen that expression in his face before. 
It took her by surprise. A fountain unlocked from ice 
could not have sent forth water more brightly. Long 
hidden feelings had gushed up and illuminated his 
features. 

“ Why, father, what is this ?” she said, kissing his 
forehead ; “you look strangely.” 

“ I feel strange, very strangely.” 

“ But it is not trouble — surely it is not trouble ?” 

“ It is almost happiness, Gillian !” 

“ Then I will leave you a little while. If you had 
been ill I could not do it, company or not.” 

“Yes, go ; it is very pleasant here.” 

“But kiss me, dear father, before I go,” she said, ten- 
derly. 

Bentley put her away, very gently, but with firmness. 

“No, Gillian; another’s kiss was on my lips a little 
while ago. It was only a dream, but let it rest there 
to-night.” 

“ Another’s ?” cried the startled girl ; “ a kiss dearer 
than mine ? • Oh, papa !” 

“It was your mother’s, Gillian, given in my dreams. 
Now leave me, and good-night.” 

Gillian went away perplexed, and conscious that her 
father did not seem like the same man. 

An hour after, and those vast rooms were empty — a 
dark, confused ruin of the beauty that had been. Gillian 
retired to her room, and slept, but there were watchful 
eyes in that mansion all night. 

And what hadI)ecome of Mrs. Ransom ? One or two 


316 Martha’s first polka. 

persons remembered seeing her, about the supper hour, 
leaving bj one of the doors near which Gillian was stand- 
ing ; then a servant in the hall remembered that she had 
hurried past him, not far from the same time, without 
cloak or hood, and entered her carriage, which had re- 
mained near the entrance, in great haste. 

The man was correct. Julia Ransom sprang into her 
carriage, and fell upon the back seat, pressing both hands 
upon her heart. The coachman held the door, waiting 
for orders. 

“ Home — home ; drive fast, home !” she gasped, and, 
falling back to the seat, muttered, “Oh, if I could but 
die at will I” 

The horses dashed off, and she sat moaning within. 
“Years, time, philosophy, religion, are they nothing? 
Can a moment sweep them off like straws ? Am I so 
weak ? God help me ! God help me I” 

The carriage stopped. She sprang out, entered her 
house, and awoke Ruby from a sound sleep. 

-y “ Ruby, my friend I Ruby, I say ! get up and help me 
pack. I am going away. Be quick. Ruby I” 

The mulatto sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. 

“ What is^ it. Missus ?” 

“We are going away. Ruby, to Europe. A steamer 
sails in the morning — we must reach it by daylight. Do 
you understand me. Ruby ?” 

“Yes, Missus, we am going to sea right off. I^m ready. 
I’ll pack up every thing in less than no time. Go, lay 
down. Missus, for you look tired out.” 

“ No, no I I will help. For my life I could not rest. 
That is a good girl — now let’s begin.” 

That woman seemed to have the strength of a giant 
that night. She flung off her ball costume, and worked 


MARKIAGE CERTIFICATE. 


817 


hand in hand with Ruby ; only pausing now and then to 
say, Make haste, girl, make haste I” 

At daylight, that morning, she stood on the deck of an 
ocean steamer, outward bound. 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE. 

The Bentley ball would have supplied gossip and com- 
ment for the fashionable world at least three days, but for- 
the more interesting romance that followed and sprung 
out of it. What was the good of discussing dresses and 
flirtations when a real domestic drama gave a zest to all 
these things which approached to scandal ? Miss Gillian 
Bentley was engaged to Woodworth, that was undoubted 
— Woodworth, the rising man, the statesman just entering 
upon his career. But how would it turn out now ? There 
were doubts abroad that Bentley was no longer a million- 
aire, that the queenly Gillian, with all her sumptuous 
pride, might yet be compelled to get her living with the 
needle, or by giving music-lessons. What would Wood- 
worth think of this ? Such men usually held their fame 
and prospects at a high value ; they were things which, 
well managed, usually won gold in plenty. Ambitious 
papas, who had daughters to dispose of in a country lack- 
ing all hereditary aristocracy, were willing to unite their 
golden fortunes with mind, and so mount in the social 
scale. 


818 


MAKEIAGE CERTIFICATE. 


Had Woodworth brought his intellect and his fame to 
a market like this ? If so, what would be the result of 
a contest about Bentley’s property ? Would the scarcely- 
declared engagement be broken off? Would Gillian re- 
lease her lover ? Would the property, in fact, be swept 
into the hands of that handsome young clerk ? What a 
catch he would be I 

These were the questions that convulsed society for 
days after Gillian’s first ball. The splendor and eclat of 
that occasion was swallowed up by eager curiosity and 
wild conjecture. Young ladies, who had repulsed the 
handsome clerk, now ruminated on the best way of re- 
tracing their unfortunate arrogance. In short, society 
was all in a ferment of conjecture. How it got abroad no 
one could tell ; but the Bentley romance and the Bentley 
ball drove every other topic out of society, before the 
parties in the great question were themselves fully in- 
formed of the position in which they were placed. 

Would the young statesman ask for his freedom ? Look 
at him as he stands before Bentley, who sits so brave and 
strong in his library, telling the young pair of the fate 
that threatened them. Does that white forehead, those 
brightened eyes, look like those of a heart-traitor ? You 
can see his broad chest heave with a noble purpose — his 
mouth curve into a pleasant smile. What does he care 
for the loss of wealth which he never realized or brought 
into question when that true heart sought its mate ? Was 
Gillian less beautiful, less worthy, less loveable, because 
millions of dollars might pass from her father’s posses- 
sion ? Was she a creature made up of silks, velvet and 
Brussels paint, or a woman, young, earnest, wealthy, in 
her own nature ? 

Woodworth never asked these questions The idea of 


MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE. 


819 


any thing separating him from Gillian, which did nob 
spring out of her own soul or his, had not once presented 
itself. 

And Gillian — of course some of my readers fancy that 
she must now set her lover free, make a fine speech, and 
proudly stand aloof while her heart breaks under its 
shield of magnanimous pride. No, no ; Gillian was ob- 
tuse like her lover. She could not force that pure, good 
heart into a calculation like that. She could not so insult 
her lover. 

They stood together there — two matchless specimens of 
the Almighty’s own nobility — heart and mind, both were 
brave and loyal. Somehow their hands crept into a 
mutual clasp, and, looking into each other’s eyes, they 
smiled, as if some great good had befallen them. 

Bentley looked upon them in surprise. He, too, seemed 
unusually brave ; his features were unlocked, his eyes full 
of animation. Had the weight of gold taken from his 
shoulders left the heart more buoyant ? It seemed so. 

“And this news doiBs not depress you, my children ?” 

“ Depress us, father !” cried Gillian. “ Why should it ? 
He is strong, and I am to be his wife. He loves me, not 
your property ; and I — this news inspires me. I feel as 
if life were just beginning for us all.” 

Woodworth drew her close to his side, his face was all 
a-glow with tender admiration. 

“You see, Mr. Bentley, I circle all that is grand, all 
that is immortal of your wealth with my arm. In a 
country like this we need not fear to look any future in 
the face. Your news must take another form before it 
even scatters the roses from Gillian’s face. As for me, 
having made my plans without reference to your prop- 


320 MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE. 

erty, I shall pursue them exactly as if nothing had hap- 
pened.” 

This is well,” said Bentley, drawing a deep breath. 

“ Now the worst is over. Gillian has been so tenderly, 
so luxuriously cared for, I feared ” 

“Feared that I could not live out of this perfumed 
atmosphere? Oh, try me, father!” cried the young 
girl, eagerly. “You see I do not care. To be his mate 
I should know how to live usefully. Oh, how I long to 
begin 1” 

She laid her hand on Woodworth^s shoulder, and rested 
her warm cheek upon it, while her father looked on, 
smiling. 

“You see how far this goes toward breaking our 
hearts,” said Woodworth, lifting a hand to her other 
cheek, and pressing the beautiful head to his bosom. 
“ So long as you, our father, do not grieve, we are 
happy.” 

“Yes, very, very happy,” murmured Gillian. 

Mr. Bentley arose, took Gillian in his arm, and kissed 
her tenderly. 

“Now go, my child. This young man will be here 
directly, and I must see him alone. Your fortitude has 
made me strong. She is a brave girl, Woodworth.” 

“ She is mine 1” cried the happy man, exultingly, “ mine 
forever and ever.” 

They went out, and in less than half an hour after 
young Hurst entered the library. He seemed astonished 
to see Mr. Bentley walking up and down the room with 
a glow upon his pale face, which made it look almost 
youthful. 

“Be seated,” said Bentley, taking a chair himself. 
“ You made a strange claim on me last night, sir. I was 


MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE. 


321 


tired, and taken unawares. We will now discuss the 
matter quietly.” 

“ It is what I wish, sir. The chain of evidence is 
complete, so my lawyer tells me.” 

“ If your evidence is complete, there was no need of a 
lawyer.” 

“ Why — why, surely you will not yield this vast prop- 
erty without a contest ?” 

“ Without a murmur, if you can prove that Mehitable 
Hart was my cousin’s wife, and you her legal son,” an- 
swered Bentley, with a calm smile. 

Hurst stood gazing upon the upright man with his lips 
apart. This was a phase of human nature which he could 
not understand. 

But this is quite necessary,” he said, at last. I 
have no wish to drive you from your possessions, far 
from it. There is a way by which every thing can be ar- 
ranged. Oh, teach your daughter to look upon me with 
a little kindness, and all may be well.” 

My daughter, sir I” 

“Yes, the beautiful Gillian. The clergyman who 
makes her my wife is all the judge we require ; never 
was a question of such moment so easily settled.” 

“And you wish to — to marry my daughter ?” 

“ Yes, sir, you see all the advantages at a glance : even 
the name will seem an arranged thing : nothing more easy. 
The husband takes the lady’s name frequently when it 
chances to have advantages superior to his own. I — I 
am ready to make even that sacrifice.” 

“ But my daughter is engaged I” 

Hurst smiled. 

“ But what will that engagement amount to after this 
is made known? Your man of genius, sir, is the most 
20 



822 MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE. 

rabid of gold hunters ; tell your daughter’s betrothed 
that she is penniless, and you will soon make her a free 
woman.” 

“ But I have told him of the chances that she is penni- 
less.” 

'‘And the result ?” 

“ He asks for an earlier day, that is all.” 

Hurst pressed his lips hard. 

"And the lady ?” he said, at last. 

"And the lady seems disposed to oblige him.” 

" But you, sir ?” 

" I, Mr. Hurst, am not a man to bring a child like Gil- 
lian into a bargain like this ; have the goodness to drop 
her name at once, and think of her only as the bride of a 
good man.” 

Hurst turned white. 

" Then you reject all compromise ?” 

" I reject any thing which involves my daughter. She 
is mated, and I approve of her choice entirely.” 

" Then it is war between us.” 

"Where two parties resolve to be just, war seldom 
arises.” 

" Sir, I love your daughter I” 

" Not another word of her ! But to the proofs : I wish 
to look over the papers you brought me last night — I wish 
to see and question Miss Hetty Hart.” 

" Mrs. William Bentley — that is my mother’s name.” 

" God grant that it may prove so,” cried Bentley, lifting 
a hand to his forehead. “ Sir, you cannot understand — 
you never will understand.” 

The hand sunk over his eyes, and Hurst could see the 
features begin to quiver — he misunderstood the sources of 
this emotion 


> 


MABKIAGE CEETIFICATE. 


323 


** Oh, sir ! if you would but reconsider — if your daughter 
does not partake of this wealth it is nothing to me.” 

Bentley lifted his head. 

“ No more of her !” he said, sternly. Let me look at 
the certificate and the letters.” 

Hurst took a slip of yellow paper from his pocket-book 
and laid it on the table ; his face took an ashen tinge, and 
his eyes gleamed like those of a rattlesnake while Bentley 
examined the document ; you could see his fingers quiver 
as if with eagerness to snatch the paper away. Was he 
afraid that Bentley would tear it up, and thus destroy the 
evidence that threatened to render him a poor man ? Or 
was there a deeper meaning for that tremor and the gray 
paleness that crept over his face ? 

Bentley’s hand was steady, and he scrutinized the paper 
earnestly, but with the look of a man searching for evi- 
dence which he wishes, rather than dreads to find. 

“The ink has not changed quite as much as the paper,” 
he said, thoughtfully. 

Hurst’s face grew livid. Bentley saw nothing of him, 
but muttered to himself — 

“ One of these persons is dead, you say ; hut who is the 
other witness and the clergyman — this Richard Frost? 
Is he alive ?” ^ 

“ He — he died years ago,” said Hurst, huskily ; “ as to 
the other witness, she is or was a very old woman.” 

“And living ? Is this old woman to he spoken with ?” 

“ I cannot tell : every search shall be made ; but her 
signature is easily proved,” answered Hurst, eagerly. 

Bentley laid the certificate on the table before him. 

“ Take it,” he said, gently ; “ it is a precious paper j God 
forever bless the man who left it.” 


“ Sir I” 


324 


MAREIAGE CERTIFICATE. 


Bentley smiled at his astonishment. 

“Ah 1 you cannot understand ; but I would know more — 
of course I must know all. How came this certificate in 
your possession now and not before ?” 

“ Mr. Frost was my guardian, selected by my mother 
and your wife. Of course the papers connected with my 
rights were left with him.” 

“ But you did not know the minister : he died while you 
were a child. ” 

“ His wife is living.” 

“And did she give you the paper ?” 

Hurst had been growing more and more pallid^ these 
were questions he had not anticipated. At first he was 
about to answer that it was old Mrs. Frost who had given 
him the papers ; but remembering how clear and sharp the 
old woman^s memory was, he changed the words on his 
lips. 

“ Ho, he left them with another person.” 

“ Who ?” 

Bentley was looking at him as he put the question. It 
would not answer to falter under that searching look. 

“Mrs. Nicholson.” 

“ Mrs. Mary Nicholson ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why that is the name I just read here — the other 
witness I” 

^ Hurst stood mute ; a shiver ran through him ; he had 
entangled himself in the first steps of his case. 

“ Yes, it is the same,” he said, at last, but with a great 
effort. 

“ Then she is alive ; I must see her.” 

“ She was alive ; of course she will be hunted out in 


MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE. 825 

time. It is some months — almost a year since I came in 
possession of the papers.” 

^‘And you have kept them all this time ? Why ?” 

Hurst smiled sadly. 

“ Can you ask the question ? You were of my father’s 
blood ; Gillian was nearer yet, and I loved her. How 
could I find the heart to claim what she considered as her 
birthright ?” 

Bentley was touched ; this magnanimity appealed to his 
fine nature. He began to pity the young man, who, after 
all, had been greatly sinned against somewhere. 

'' But you make the claim now ?” 

Not till I hear her name coupled openly with another — 
not till she has met my advances with cutting scorn : I 
should have been more than human to abstain after that. 
Now, even now, there is no influence that can force me 
into open hostilities so long as there is a hope of gaining 
her. But I will not lose every thing ; I will not enrich 
that man with my own birthright : that would be mad- 
ness, not generosity.” 

“ You are right, young man. If this document is gen- 
uine there is no middle course. The estates I inherited 
from William Bentley are yours ; I shall not withhold 
them.” 

“ I knew this would be your magnanimous course, and 
so shrunk from the step I have taken.” 

Bentley bowed, and answered, rather hurriedly, 

“But I must see these people face to face. Your 
mother — I thank God she is your mother — this Mrs. 
Nicholson, and any person capable of proving the mar- 
riage. It is just, it is important from deeper, far deeper 
reasons than this property. I tell you, young man, there 
shall be no doubt left. I will search for the truth in that 


326 THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS. 


old minister’s grave rather than not find it, now that there 
is a doubt.” 

Hurst was disturbed. He had expected a fierce contest. 
Now it seemed as fif the man he sought to despoil was 
more eager to get proofs of his claim than he himself had 
ever been. The whole thing perplexed him greatly. 
There was a moment’s silence : then Mr. Bentley spoke. 

“ Those letters, you will leave them with me for a few 
hours ; not the certificate — I do not ask for that — but the 
letters. I wish to read them now when I am alone. ” 

“ They are my proof 1” 

I know it, but you will trust me.” 

Hurst could not help it ; precious as the letters were, 
he laid them on the table. The integrity of that man 
could not be doubted. 

“ Thank you,” said Bentley, laying his slender hand on 
the package, and lifting his face with a sad, grateful 
smile. “ Come to me in the morning, and we will search 
this m'atter more thoroughly. ” 

Hurst went out, bowing low, and with some pure 
human feelings clamoring at his heart. 


CHAPTER XXXiy. 

THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS. 

“ Mary Nicholson !” 

“ Well, Mrs. Frost ?” 

“Mary Nicholson, where have you flirted off too, 1 


THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS. 327 

should like to know ? Oh, Michael, you can’t tell what 
a trial that flighty creature is. If ever I take another 
young person to bring up and be responsible for during 
my whole life, you set me down as a born idiot, nothing 
less. Mary Nicholson, I say, what are you doing ?” 

'' Only putting — oh, dear, only — why nothing at all, 
Mrs. Frost,” cried Mrs. Nicholson, appearing in the door 
of her bed-room with her foxy little front all awry on her 
forehead, and a cap half on, the faded pink ribbons of 
which she was tying. 

“ There it is,” said Mrs. Frost, with an indulgent smile, 
“ always the pink ribbons when a gentleman knocks. 
Now I tell you, Michael, this giddy creature is setting her 
cap for you — her cap pink with bows and streamers. Did 
you ever see anything so giddy ? Well, Mary Nicholson, 
for once Mr. Hurst really wants to see you. Sit down, 
and do, for mercy’s sake, stop fidgeting with them cap 
strings — it’s enough to make one sick.” 

“ Don’t be too severe on the lady,” said Michael, 
blandly ; “for my part, I think the pink ribbons charming : 
they give a delicate flush to the complexion.” 

“ Mr. Hurst 1” exclaimed Mrs. Frost, austerely. 

“ Oh, Mr. Hurst I” murmured Mrs. Nicholson, grate- 
fully. 

Michael smiled deprecatingly on Mrs. Frost, and 
ardently on Mrs. Nicholson. 

“ Then you really cannot remember any thing about 
this ceremony, Mrs. Frost ?” he said, anxiously. “ Still 
it must have taken place in your house, and Mrs. Nichol- 
son was undoubtedly present, for her name is on the cer- 
tificate.” 

‘‘ I — I — did you mean me ?” gasped Mrs. Nicholson. 
“ Of course I bad a certificate ; who doubts it ? — who 


328 


THK UNCERTAIN WITNESS 


dares attempt to take away my character ? Mrs. Frost, 
you may call me young and giddy, and a flirt, but don’t 
insinuate to Mr. Hurst that I never had a certificate, be- 
cause I had.” 

''You don’t understand,” said Hurst, soothingly, "it is 
not of your marriage certificate we speak ; but of one to 
which you were a witness, years ago, when you first came 
to visit Mrs. Frost. Try and think: it seems almost 
hopeless to ask one so blooming to remember back more 
than twenty years ; but every thing depends on it, Mrs. 
Nicholson — every thing that I can have or hope for on 
earth. If you can only remember the circumstances 
under which you wTote this name, it will put a million 
of dollars in my pocket.” 

" A million of dollars I Oh, Mr. Hurst I” 

“ A million of dollars ! Besides giving you and Mrs, 
Frost a house of your own, with an income that will make 
you the envy of half New York. A thousand dollars a 
year — two, three thousand, if you want it !” 

,Mrs. Frost’s eyes began to glitter, and her head went 
off again, nod— nod — nod, till Hurst really longed to take 
hold of her and set it straight. But Mrs. Nicholson 
looked rather bewildered and very blank : she did not seem 
to relish the idea of living foreyer with Mrs. Frost, even 
in a grand house, and with an abundant income. But 
she sat looking at the marriage certificate, wondering 
vaguely how her name got on the paper, and feeling a 
little frightened; as if she suspected some ghost work. 

" Surely you can remember ?” whispered Hurst, pale 
with expectation. 

Mrs. Nicholson shook her head. The elder woman’s 
eyes glowed brighter and brighter, like fire through frosted 
glass: he was enraged at Mary Nicholson’s hesitation. 


THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS. 329 

“ Can’t you remember, Mary Nicholson ?” 

I am trying my best,” answered the old lady, “my 
very best. William Bentley, and Mehitable Hart, Mary 
Nicholson. Well, iijs strange !” 

“ What is strange ?” cried Mrs. Frost. 

“Why, that this should be my writing, and I not 
remember it.” 

“ Think — think, it is so many years ago, Mrs. Nichol- 
son,” cried Hurst, breathless with anxiety. 

“ Does she remember it ?” inquired the bewildered 
woman, looking at Mrs. Frost, who tried to shake her 
head, but only introduced a few more energetic spasms in 
the wrong direction. 

“No, I don’t remember; how should I? My name 
isn’t on the paper,” cried Mrs. Frost, sharply. “ My hus- 
band was a strange man in some things, and kept his own 
secrets close as a vice. He was always marrying people 
behind my back ; I believe if he could a-done it, he’d 
have married me without letting me know it, and claimed 
me afterward : that was Mr. Frost all over.” 

“ But you remember Mr. William Bentley coming here, 
one night, with one of the Hart girls and going into his 
study ?” said Hurst. 

“I remember them coming; and yes, yes, I dare say 
they did go into the study. Mary Nicholson, you were 
here that night : I remember your saying something about 
Mehitable Hart. What was it n6w ?” 

“ I can’t recollect, Mrs. Frost.” 

“But you must recollect, Mary Nicholson.” 

“ Dear me, how can I ?” 

Hurst began to despair. His witness only became 
more and more confused. 

“ Mrs. Frost, if you would be so kind, just step into the 


330 THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS. 


next room, and leave me alone with Mrs. Nicholson a few 
minutes.” 

“Alone with Mrs. Nicholson I” 

“You understand, she has not exactly your clear 
memory ; age tells on her a little.” 

“Age I Mr. Hurst, age I” wailed. Mrs. Nicholson, 
“ why, why, indeed, I don’t think you can honestly call it 
that. My memory, sir, is clear as a bell — clear as spring- 
water, Mr. Hurst. Indeed, it’s very cruel to take me by 
surprise, and, because I can’t think all at once, call it age. ” 

Hurst smiled gently, and looked at Mrs. Frost, who 
had arisen, and stood nodding her head at them over one 
shoulder. 

“ No, Mr. Hurst, it ain’t proper, and I won’t,” cried the 
old lady, subsiding into her chair, and beginning to rock 
with spasmodic jerks. 

“ Perhaps you are right,” said Hurst. “ Mrs. Nicholson 
is a little nervous, though ; allow us to sit by the window. 
Her memory will come back. It’s only because the whole 
thing seamed so unimportant at the time. But you will 
understand, Mrs. Nicholson,” he continued, leading the 
old lady to a chair by the window, and pressing her hand 
softly as he went, “you will understand that it was the 
marriage of my father and mother you witnessed that 
night. If I can prove that marriage — and you are the 
only witness living — ^it makes me the richest man in New 
York. It gives me the power to help my friends to any 
extent ; and who among all those friends will have the 
claim on me that you will possess — you to whom I shall 
owe all my wealth and good fortune ?” 

“ But you will not make me live with her ?” said the 
poor woman, in a whisper, and casting frightened looks at 
the rocking-chair. 


i 


THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS. 


831 


“With her I No, no. You have seen Mr. Bentley’s 
house ? been in it, I dare say 

“ Yes, once ; Miss Hetty asked me, and I went. What 
a grand house it is !” 

“ When I am its master — and that your evidence will 
make me — what think you of being housekeeper there, 
mistress of every one 

“ Me ? Oh, Mr. Hurst I you take away, my breath. 
But her — what will she do ?” * 

“ She shall have a house by herself, with a good, strong 
person to wait on her.” 

“ Strong I Yes, she will need to be that.” 

“I know — I know, but you shall be that person no 
longer — you who are a friend of my mother’s I” 

“ Your mother — your mother, who was she ?” 

“ Miss Hetty Hart, the woman whom you saw married 
in Mr. Frost’s study, more than twenty years ago, when 
your name was put to this certificate.” 

“ Yes, yes, that is my name and my writing ; but as 
for the ceremony, somehow my mind is a little confused 
yet.” 

“ Yery natural. It was a long time ago, hut I remem- 
ber it all. ” 

“ You 1” 

“ Yes, distinctly ; you have told me the story a hun- 
dred times, when I was a little boy : how Mr. William 
Bentley — a handsome fellow, wasn’t he ? — came to Mr. 
Frost’s house, one evening, with Miss Hart and another 
young person — her name is on the certificate, you see — all 
dressed in white, but without any thing else particular 
about them.” 

“Yes, yes, I think I do remember about the dresses— 


332 THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS. 

muslin, with tucks and worked edging. I had a dress 
like that once,” cried the old lady, eagerly. 

“ Oh, yes, I knew the whole thing would come to your 
recollection ; such scenes sometimes sleep in the mind for 
years, and then come out clear when some object brings 
them forcibly to the thought. Now it is a long time 
since you told me about this wedding, but I remember it 
all — you give a story so vividly, my dear Mrs. Nicholson.” 

• “ Do I ? Well, I didn’t know that ; but of course I 
shouldn’t have told it if it hadn’t been so.” 

“That was what I was saying to Mrs. Frost, when she 
hinted that you were a little in years and might have for- 
gotten. ‘ No, my dear Mrs. Frost,’ said I, ‘ there exist 
people who never grow old, and of such is Mrs. Mary 
Nicholson — her memory may sleep, nothing more.’ Mrs. 
Frost will see that I am right. How quickly your mind 
seizes on facts I You even remember the dress.” 

“ Oh, yes, I am almost — quite sure of the dress I” 

“And the way in which they entered the study. There 
was a little confusion, you remember, owing to the minis- 
ter not being prepared.” i 

“ Yes, yes, how kind you are ! I never should have ’ 
recalled all these things but for you. Now they stand ! 
out quite clear. I never saw any thing like it ; and these | 
people were really your father and mother ?” 

“They were, indeed. But till this time I have been 
kept an orphan — worse than an orphan. But for this cer- , 
tificate I should now be ashamed to speak of a father or 
mother.” 

“ Poor fellow ! I understand. But the certificate ” | 

“ Makes a man of me — an honorable, rich, powerful 
man.” 

“ Ob, I’m so glad I But how did you find the paper ?” 




THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS. 


833 


This question was put in a raised voice, and old Mrs. 
Frost caught it. 

“Yes, how on earth came you to find the paper, 
Michael ? I want to know that I” 

“ I found it, with a bundle of letters which my aunt 
and mother wrote to Mr. Frost, in the old chest of 
drawers, in my room up-stairs.” 

“ The old chest of drawers — my husband’s chest — why, 
Michael, how ^id you get in there ? It hasn’t been un- 
locked these fifteen years.” 

“ True, Mrs. Frost ; but in that time locks rust out. I 
had but to give a stout pull, and found my fortune in the 
old papers.” 

“ Then Mary Nicholson didn’t give you my keys ? It 
wasn’t her ?” cried the old woman, going up to the china 
vase, and nodding vehemently over it, as she thrust her 
old, withered hands into the rubbish it contained. “ I 
can’t find them. Mary Nicholson ! Mary Nicholson !” 

“ Let me search I” cried Hurst, drawing a clenched hand 
from his pocket, as he started up. “ The jar is deep. 
Yes, yes, something jingles — this must be your keys, 
grandmother !” 

“ Yes, so it is. Well, well, it’s all right ; but Mary 
Nicholson might have done it, you know.” 

“Don’t say a word against her, grandmather; her 
memory is bright as a school girl’s. I never saw any 
thing like it. Now if Mr. Bentley, or his lawyers, were 
to question you, my dear Mrs. Nicholson, you could de- 
scribe the whole wedding, I dare say — how the minister 
looked, and all.” 

“ Why, of course I Didn’t I remember about the tucked 
dress ?” cried the old lady, exultingly. 

“ But you won’t let those lawyers browbeat you out of 


334 THE UNCERTAIlSr WITNESS. 


it ? they always fancy an elderly woman must forget, and 
so presume upon it.” 

“ Elderly I Well, well, let them question' me ; I shall 
stick to the truth. How could I have told you all about 
it, if I hadn’t been there ?” 

“ But you had, perhaps, better not mention me ; they 
would fancy you could not trust your own memory.” 

“ They’ll see, they’ll see,” responded the old lady, lifting 
her head, and giving it a gentle toss thatf set the faded 
ribbons fluttering around her face. “ If I didn’t witness 
that marriage, who did, I’d like to know ?” 

“ Your memory has made me worth a million. Grand- 
mother here could not quite make it out ; but she is so 
much older.” 

“Wasn’t there — sure of it,” said the old lady, who was 
becoming slightly irritated by all this flattery of Mary 
Nicholson. 

“ I dare say, dear grandmother ; besides, your signa- 
ture is not here to prove it ; but you can do me a great 
kindness, a very great one.” 

“ Well, what is it ? Something Mary Nicholson can’t 
do, or you never would have thought of asking me.” 

“ It is about my mother.” 

“ What, Hetty Hart ? Poor thing I what about her ?” 

“ Mrs. Bentley — Bentley is her name, and mine. She 
is a widow, remember, with a dower claim on one-third 
of the Bentley property ; but at this moment without a 
home.” 

“ Why, isn’t she at Mr. Bentley’s ?” 

“No, I brought her away quietly, this morning. She 
is not well, and I did not like to leave her among our 
enemies.” 


AUNT HETTY’S EVIDENCE. 835 


Poor, nervous creature !” muttered Mrs. Frost. 
“ Well, where is she ? and what do you want 

“ She is up-stairs in my room — I took the liberty. She 
will not prove troublesome. She only wants to be alone. 
If Mrs. Nicholson will take her a bit of toast and a cup 
of tea, now and then, I shall not forget it. You are not 
angry, dear grandmother ?” 

Here Michael would have kissed the old woman, but 
that the vibrations of her head rendered the salute im- 
possible. 

There, there, remember Mary Nicholson is by, and 
don’t be foolish — of course I ain’t angry. Mary Nichol- 
son, go round to the corner and get a mince-pie, and send 
a piece up with the toast ; then cut the rest into three 
parts. Michael has found out who he is, and what be- 
longs to him, so we’ll have a celebration for once. Get a 
pound of crackers and four ounces of smoked beef, and — 
and — that’ll do, Mary Nicholson !” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

AUNT HETTY’S EVIDENCE. 

A FEW days after the ball, Mr. Bentley presented him- 
self at the residence of Mrs. Frost, anxious to search the 
evidence of Hurst’s claim to the bottom. The old lady 
had but little information to give. She only knew that 
the Hart girls had been frequent visitors to Mrs. Frost a 
year or two before his death. That once Mr. William 
Bentley came with one of them — it might be both — and 


836 AUNT Hetty’s evidence. 

she believed, but was not certain, the time was so distant, 
spent a portion of the time in his study. The girls 
seemed very happy then ; but afterward, when they came 
and asked for private interviews with her husband, a 
great change was upon them : they both seemed sad and 
harassed. Her husband, too, was anxious and irritable 
after these visits, as if some secret lay at the bottom of 
it all. Mrs. Frost was very frank, and willing to talk, 
but this proved to be all that she had to say. 

Mary Nicholson was less composed, but more com- 
municative. Her memory had settled itself since Mr. 
Hurst’s first visit. She had no doubt regarding the white 
dresses with tucks ; no d(^ubt that the whole party went 
into the study, but the exact form of the marriage cere- 
mony escaped her. Still her signature was there, and it 
must have been ; she would soon remember it all, only 
not just that moment. So far, the evidence was un- 
doubtedly in Hurst’s favor; but another and more im- 
portant witness remained. 

Bentley left Mrs. Frost’s room, and, ascending a flight 
of stairs, entered an attic-chamber. Aunt Hetty lay upon 
the bed, with her face to the wall. She started, as the 
door opened, and turned upon her elbow. 

When she saw Bentley, her arm gave way, atid she fell 
back upon the pillow, uttering a faint groan. 

Bentley seated himself on the bed beside her, and took 
her quivering little hand between both his. She tried to 
pull it away, and even used a little feeble force ; but he 
lield it kindly, and said, in a voice full of tender gentle- 
ness : 

“ Hetty, my sister, talk freely with me. If I have been 
the means of withholding any right from you, or the 
young man who claims to be your son, convince me of it 


AUNT Hetty’s evidence. 337 

I will be just to the uttermost farthing ; only tell me how 
it all happened.” 

Hetty did not sob, but her slight form seemed to wither 
up, as the mimosa plant curls its leaves to a touch. 

“ Don’t I don’t !” she moaned. 

“ Tell me one thing : is this young man your son ?” 

She looked up. Her eyes flashed through the mist of 
her sorrow. 

“ My son — ^yes, he is my son !” 

Bentley sunk upon his knees, covered his face with both 
hands, and thanked God in his heart of hearts. 

She regarded him with wonder, certain that it was not 
sorrow which shook his frame so violently. At last he 
arose, and held her hand again. 

And you assure me, before God, that he is your son ?” 

Before God he is my son !” 

“ And you were legally married to William Bentley ? 
Say this solemnly, as you have just spoken, and, from 
this hour, I am a penniless man.” 

She shrunk back, pressing herself down upon the pil- 
lows, and wrenched her hand from his clasp. 

“ Not here, not now ; if they force me before a court I 
must, but do not ask me to take oath after oath before 
high God in this way 1” 

“ But why ? You cannot expect me to relinquish all I 
possess without full proof that this — that your son has a 
legal right to it. Sooner or later this oath must be taken.” 

No, no, he doesn’t want to quarrel I” she cried, wildly. 

Do, do consent to his marrying Gillian I I shall die if 
he dispossesses Sarah’s child ! Oh, if he would but give it 
up I Ask him — I have begged so humbly on my very 
kn^es, but he will not listen. What can I do ? He is my 
son, and I have lived childless all my life Don’t ask me 
21 


838 


AUNT HETTY’S EVIDENCE. 


to go on suffering as I have I Let him marrj Gillian — 
the child of my angel sister ; that noble, noble sister — 
there is only this way : think of it. He is handsome — 
you cannot say that he is not handsome — and we educated 
him well, Sarah and I, with our savings and our hard, 
hard work. He is a gentleman, every inch of him. Why 
not let him marry Gillian 

That wild, pleading look ; those clasped hands, with the 
slender fingers twining convulsively around each other ; 
the eager, open eyes imploring him, were enough to touch 
the heart of any man. Bentley was deeply moved ; but 
there was something in this terrible agitation that aroused 
his suspicion. Why was she so willing to swear that 
Michael was her son, and yet become frantic at the men- 
tion of her marriage ? 

The first question, so readily and so truthfully an- 
swered, had set his heart at rest on a point which had 
haunted him all through his manhood ; thus, with his 
pride and affections all quieted, his intellect became clear. 
By what right could he despoil Gillian of her inherit- 
ance, unless the legal claims of her cousin were made 
positive ? So long as the mother shrunk from a clear 
statement of all the facts connected with her marriage, he 
must still be in doubt. 

“ One word, Hetty, one word more for her sake.” 

“ Her sake ! Whose ?” cried Hetty, with a wild start. 

“ Sarah — your sister, and my wife. Did she know of 
this marriage ?*’ 

‘‘Marriage! Sarah I no, no ! She had nothing to do 
wi^h it.” 

“ And was ignorant of it entirely ?” 

“Yes, yes.” 

“ And you allowed that noble creature to sacrifice her- 


AUNT Hetty’s evidence. 889 

self forever and ever to a caprice of silence ; to work for 
you ; plan for you; sacrifice husband and child, rather than 
cast shame on you, while a word would have saved all !” 

Bentley arose to his feet, pale and stern. His pity was 
all gone. He fairly loathed the poor, weak thing that lay 
writhing like a worm on that low bed. 

She did not look up ; but buried her face down, down 
in the pillow, uttering broken sounds, that had no mean- 
ing save that of intense pain. 

“ I tell you, woman,” cried Bentley, in a voice so stem 
with indignant anguish that it rang through the room, 
I tell you it was this lie, told now or acted then, which 
separated me from your sister : a separation which drove 
her into the grave, and made me a cold, useless, miserable 
man.” 

“ Oh ! oh I my God I my God ! Sarah I Sarah I don’t 
haunt me ! Don’t curse me I I can’t help it ! You suf- 
fered all this to save me — now, now you are dead, and 
nothing can help that. I must save him, safe myself I” 
moaned the unhappy woman. 

“ Once again,” said Bentley, “ will you swear to me 
here, before the Most High, that William Bentley was 
your lawful husband at the time of his death ?” 

She did not speak, but kept on writhing out broken 
moans. 

‘‘ Speak, woman, for I will be answered I” 

She lifted her white, pinched face, imploring him. 
“ Don’t ask me now I I must do it, you know, by-and-by ; 
but once is enough. Oh, why not let Gillian marry him ? 
She would have done it; she never shrunk from any 
thing I She would stand up before me with her grand 
courage, and say, ‘ Let the whole fall on me. Little Hetty 
can’t bear it, but I can !’ ” 


840 Aunt hetty’s evidence. 

Don’t speak of her, woman I” 

“ I will ! I will I She was mj sister. If she could 
stand here now, she would find some way for me out of 
this. Everybody obeyed her ; no one cares for me — no 
one, but Michael, my son.” 

She lifted her head erectly, like a wren ready to fly at 
any thing that disputed a right to its young. 

“ He will take care of me ; he loves me dearly. It is 
for my sake he wishes to he rich and great. I don’t care 
for it, only the love ; but he cannot see everybody lording 
it over his own mother without wanting to defend her. 
Oh, he’s proud as the best of you, if Gillian did want to 
turn him out of doors.” 

Her air of petty defiance almost brought a smile to 
Bentley’s face. She was like a desperate little bird pick- 
ing at granite. 

Bentley found, as most persons will who try it, that 
weakness is far more difficult to deal with than strength. 
It has its own little cunning, its petty deceptions, and 
negative stubbornness — small traits which a great mind is 
sure to undervalue and forget to guard against. Thus it 
happens, so often, that those who appear to be really in- 
significant persons, sometimes influence events with unex- 
pected force. Weary of her evasions — and convinced that 
she had, of herself, neither the courage to do right, honestly; 
or to act wrong, boldly — he went away, leaving her writh- 
ing in hysterics on the bed. 

Scarcely had the street-door closed, when Hurst came 
out from a dark nook in the garret, where he had listened 
to all that passed, through a crevice in the wooden ceiling, 
and entered his mother’s room. 

She rose up in bed and reached forth her arms. With 
a weak burst of triumph, 


FAMILY CONSULTATIONS. 


841 


** I did it I” she said. “ He was very cross and stem, 
but I stuck to the fact, and said nothing more. Now will 
you believe I have some firmness, Michael ? No — William. 
I won’t call you Michael any more. Sarah would have it 
so ; she was afraid to name you after your father. But 
now I have nothing to be frightened abouk Father, my 
dear old father, is dead and gone ; he cannot make me 
tremble with his eyes ; and as for Daniel, why the way 
you have settled it, no disgrace can come on him, or me, 
or any one, especially if you marry Gillian.” 

Hurst had seated himself, and drew her into his arms 
while she was talking ; so her speech ended in little hys- 
terical caresses, which he returned sparingly ; while, with 
the craft of a bad heart, and the energy of a strong one, 
he encouraged her — praised the firmness which she had 
displayed ; and, with sophistry which might have blinded 
a more vigorous intellect, convinced her that what he 
sought was but the just and natural right which every son 
had to inherit from his father. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

AMILY CONSULTATIONS. 

Bentley sought his daughter, for she alone had a right 
to share his doubts and help in his decision. He found 
her, just after Woodworth had departed, happy, but a 
little serious ; for she had begun to reflect upon the fate 
that lay before her father, should Hurst maintain his pre- 


342 FAMILY CONSULTATIONS. 

tensions to the estate. Proud, sensitive, and blessed with 
a refinement of taste which renders the coarse things and 
harsh passages of life almost unendurable, what would he 
do with poverty ? It was a phase of life he had outrun 
years ago ; and now, with all his habits fixed, and his 
tastes refined into sources of exquisite enjoyment, must 
he give up every thing, and become a recluse, or a depen- 
dent ? 

These thoughts had saddened Gillian a little amid her 
happiness. It seemed as if, in marrying Woodworth, she 
abandoned her father to loneliness, or secured for him only 
the humiliation of dependence. Then a thousand ques- 
tions arose that she wished to ask. That conversation 
with her Uncle Daniel, in the old stone-house, in which her 
mother’s history had been so entangled with that of Aunt 
Hetty, rose freshly to her mind. She longed to know 
more of all this, and felt free to question her father as she 
had never done before. 

Bentley sat down by Gillian, and told her of his inter- 
view with the old women, and of that which followed 
with Aunt Hetty, who had secretly left the house on the 
morning after the party. Word for word he repeated the 
conversation, and described the scene. 

Gillian listened gravely ; her quick intellect seized upon 
the facts, and came to conclusions almost before they were 
uttered. 

“ Father,” she said, “ there is something wrong in this 1 
If the marriage was ever solemnized, why was it kept 
secret ? Why did she falter when that question came up, 
and yet claim her son so boldly ? Besides, was my mother 
a woman to leave this property in your hands, and share 
it with you, if she had suspected this ?’■’ 

Bentley started : he had never thought of this. It was 


FAMILY CONSULTATIONS. 8-i3 

implicating the integrity of his dead wife if he yielded to 
this demand, blackening the fame which had just been 
rescued from suspicion. His brow became dark at this, 
and his heart grew anxious again. Gillian watched the 
changes of his countenance with tender anxiety. 

“ Papa, tell me of my mother. Did you love her 

The blood, always so cool, flashed up like fire, redden- 
ing that pale forehead, and burning in his eyes. 

“ Love her, Gillian ? Yes, better than my own soul.’^ 

^‘And you were happy together 

“ For a time, Gillian, happy beyond any thing I can 
describe. Your mother was a woman to make a heaven 
of life : she brightened every thing around her !” 

“And died so early said Gillian, drooping her eyes, 
and sighing heavily, “ Oh, father, tell me of her death. 
I never heard you speak of it !” 

“ First,’' said Bentley, and his sharp, quick breathing 
betrayed the suppressed agitation which only made him a 
little pale — “ first let me tell you of her life — how I found 
her.” 

“Uncle Daniel told me of that, papa; all about your 
cousin being killed, and the trouble it caused ; about 
Atint Hetty’s coming to town. I thought at first it was 
my mother who felt the loss most ; but now ” 

“ Now,” said Bentley, “ she is proved by her unhappy 
sister’s confession to have been a creature so noble that 
a husband should have gloried in her. She was endowed 
with every thing grand and good. She was a martyr to 
her family, an angel to me, and yet I destroyed her.” 

“ Father I” 

“ Yes, look surprised I Let my words drain the color 
from your cheek. It is a truth, 1 destroyed her, stung her 
pride to the quick, wounded her delicacy, trampled on all 


844 


FAMILY CONSULTATIONS. 


that was sensitive or grand in her nature. Blows would 
have been far more kind. Gillian, I suspected your 
mother I” 

“ Suspected my mother ?” 

“ Yes, the world would say I had cause. It sprang 
out of this mystery, or this sin, which is developing itself 
now. Your mother was frank to a fault, generous beyond 
any person I ever heard of. It was not the generosity 
which gives alone, but a spirit of self-sacrifice, a disposi- 
tion to take up the burdens of those who were weaker 
than herself, and carry them forward. It did not require 
that the person helped should be her friend or agreeable to 
her taste. Humanity was enough to claim a sacrifice of her. 
She loved to do good for the sweet reward which sprang 
up in her own heart. Yet she had a thousand disguises 
for this weakness, as she called it ; and, to hear her talk, 
you would have fancied her a reckless, bright creature, 
capable of impulsive kindness, but little more. She was 
like you, Gillian, not so beautiful in one way, perhaps, 
but with a world of fresh vigor, of reckless joyousness, 
and with a susceptibility of sadness that you have never 
dreamed of.” 

“ Oh, if I had but known her!” sighed Gillian. 

“ She was a woman to worship, Gillian ; fresh as the 
flowers of an untrodden wilderness, quick to think, earn- 
est to act. Her impetuosity sometimes troubled me a 
little, for I had been educated with more social restraints, 
and was over-sensitive to appearances ; but after living 
so long in the dead level of conventionalisms, her very 
faults appear to me as virtues now.” 

“No wonder you loved her — no wonder I” 

Bentley bowed his head ; a feeling of heavy self-abase- 


FAMILY CONSlTLTATIO^"S. 


845 


ment crept over him. He could not look Gillian in the 
face. At last he spoke with hoarse slowness. 

“ I am naturally suspicious I” 

“You, papa 

“ Distrustful, rather. I loved my wife, God only knows 
how well ; but from the first there was something about 
her acquaintance with my cousin that troubled me. 
Frank in all things else, she was silent if his name was 
mentioned ; even before I married her the idea of an at- 
tachment between them had disturbed me. Her grief at 
his death was terrible. It seemed like despair.’^ 

“ It was strange. I thought so when Uncle Daniel told 
me about it. Now it is clear. She was grieving for her 
sister, striving to shield her sister,” said Gillian. 

“ I knew that she had a secret,” continued Bentley, 
wrapped in his own thoughts ; “ that she had some object 
of interest in the city which was never mentioned in her 
home. There was a clergyman by the name of Frost whom 
she visited often, and with some appearance of mystery. 
At times she came to me for money, and no purchase fol- 
lowed, a thing that struck me as strange ; for she had a 
sumptuous love of the beautiful, and a fabric or gem that 
gratified this passion made her happy as a child. Indeed, 
in many things, she was like a child, always in trifles, 
though, in important things, she added almost masculine 
strength to more womanly tenderness than I ever saw in 
a human heart. These little things made me distrustful. 
I wondered why this woman, to whose nature a secret 
was repulsive, had one from her own husband. 

“ One day, it was when you were a little thing, Gillian, 
a trunk was sent down from your Uncle Daniel’s, which 
had belonged to William Bentley. In it had been placed 
tfie coat which my cousin wore the day he was killed. 


346 FAMILY CONSULTATIONS. 


Scrupulously honest in all things, Daniel had found the 
trunk in his garret, and so forwarded it to the city. 

“ Sarah was out when the trunk arrived. I opened it, 
took up the coat carelessly, and a pocket-book fell out of 
a side pocket. In that book I found a letter from my wife 

to William Bentley ” 

‘‘ Well, father I” said Gillian, holding her breath. 

“ It was a passionate appeal to his honor — a wild, urgent 
request that he should save her and her family from dis- 
grace. It was a letter written in distraction, eloquent 
beyond any thing I ever read ; such as Sarah would write 
if driven wild by danger, or threatened with disgrace.” 

Gillian listened, turning pale and cold, till she remem- 
bered all that had transpired regarding her aunt. Then 
her breath came out in quick gushes, and she burst into 
a passion of tears. 

“ My mother, my great-hearted mother, it was for her 
only sister she was pleading ; it was to save my grand- 
father’s gray hairs from dishonor I” 

“ I read the letter, and it maddened me. But my tem- 
perament is firm ; I knew how to wait. After that I 
traced your mother to a house in the city ; I saw her with 
my own eyes caressing a child — a bright, handsome boy, 
whose very look was death to me. At night I gave your 
mother the letter, and told her that she had been traced 
in her visits to the living guilt, which would forever be an 
evidence against her. She was at first dumb and cold as 
marble. Then with a look that made my blood burn, she 
turned from me. 

“ I had some wild hope that she might explain ; but she 
attempted nothing of the kind, though her air had more 
l^an the grandeur of innocence : all that she said was — 

“ ‘ For my father’s sake, give me silence ! I ask nothing, 
\ 


FAMILY CONSULTATIONS. 347 

deny nothing. But my father is an old man, and the 
thought of disgrace would kill him.’ 

“ ‘ We must part,’ I said, driven to madness by her ac- 
quiescence in the charge I had made. 

“ ‘ I know that,’ she said, with terrible sadness. ‘ If 
you could .think this of me, it is enough. But in silence, 
let it be in silence, if not for my sake, think of our child.’ 

“It was settled. From that time she grew to be a 
stranger. We suffered the agony of each other’s presence, 
and that was all. Either in time or eternity I shall never 
know agony like that. 

“ It was arranged that our shame should be locked up 
forever. We went to Europe directly, up the Mediterra- 
nean, on to Naples. There I left your mother — first sep- 
arating her from her child, whom I placed in a convent. 
For myself, I went on to Turkey, Egypt, and the Holy 
Land, a weary, heavy-hearted man ; God help me, for I 
loved the woman I had left I 

“ She would take no money from me ; but I was not to 
be repulsed, and forced a sum upon her before leaving her 
a stranger in a strange land. 

“ Two years after, I came back to Naples and inquired 
after my wife. They told me that the fair woman from 
America had remained some months in the city, growing 
paler and paler each day till she died. You have seen the 
place in the Gampo Sante where she sleeps, Gillian !” 

“And now she is dead, and you know how innocent she 
was !” cried Gillian, weaving her hands together. “ Oh, 
my mother — my mother I” 

“ It was I that killed — I, her husband I If her child 
hates me, it is but just.” 

“ Father, the wrong was not yours — not hers. It was 
the sin of that miserable, miserable woman — she whose 


848 FAMILY CONSULTATIONS. 


son would now cast us into poverty. Never, while I live, 
shall this thing be. Tell him that you contest this claim — 
that his father’s sin has done its last work with us.” 

“ But my wife died to save this woman from disgrace. 
We can only contest her son’s claim by proving that which 
she suffered martyrdom to conceal.” 

True, true I” said Gillian ; “ and must the innocent al- 
ways suffer for the guilty ? Must this weak, miserable 
woman darken our lives forever ?” 

“ She is your mother’s sister — your grandfather’s child !” 

“Alas ! yes !” 

“ Shall we, in order to save Bentley’s property, heap 
disgrace on her family ?” 

“No, no, papa — better any thing than that. Poor 
Uncle Daniel — it would kill him.” 

“ To be dragged through a court of law, hear her name 
bandied by counsel, printed in a hundred journals — what 
would poverty be compared to that ?” said Bentley. 

Gillian shuddered. 

“ Father,” she said, “ we have gone too far. This is a 
terrible epoch in our lives ; I cannot leave you yet. Mr. 
Woodworth must wait till we become a little used to 
poverty.” 

“ Well, my child, we will consider that ; but these two 
people shall not shipwreck your happiness.” 

“ Let us go to Uncle Daniel,” said Gillian. “ He is 
honest and true-hearted. Let us all go at once.” 

They went. 




CHAPTER XXXYII. 


MRS. ransom’s return. 

Bentley took his daughter and went into Rockland 
county, to the old homestead, which no longer belonged to 
him or to Daniel Hart ; but, right or wrong, was hence- 
forth the property of Michael Hurst, or, if we must call 
him so, William Bentley. The mortgage, though con- 
sidered a dead letter among themselves, still existed ; and 
the farm like all the other property, was swept out of 
their possession when Mr. Bentley resolved to abdicate. 
Thus, wherever they went, the father and daughter carried 
misfortun’e with them. 

It was night again in the stone farm-house. Dinah 
was glorifying herself in the kitchen, and began at once to 
institute a new system of behavior in her department. She 
was horrified by the two-pronged forks, and went off in 
spasms of eloquent distress when the farm-hands insisted 
upon eating with their knives. Liz was deeply' im- 
pressed by all this, and watched her grandmother with 
open-mouthed admiration, taken completely off her feet 
by the' gorgeous turban with which Dinah had conde- 
scended to astonish the natives. 

In the sitting-room, gathered around the hickory- wood 
fire, were Bentley, Gillian, Daniel Hart and his daughter, 
in serious consultation. 

** This is my opinion,” said Daniel Hart : “ as we have 
all made up our minds to give up, and let the young 

349 


850 


MBS. BANSOM’s BETUBN. 


fellow take possession, we have but one thing to consider 
— how are we to live, and where, from this time out ? If 
the farm was ours that would be easily settled. But it is 
not, and we must look up new homes somewhere. How 
much capital have we got among us ?” 

Mr. Bentley shook his head. 

“Very little, I faney : we left every thing but bare 
personal necessaries behind,” he said. 

“ I have a few jewels, whieh he could not claim,” said 
Gillian, eagerly: “they were gifts from dear friends.” 

“ That is something worth while. Why, a single diamond 
will build us a log cabin 1” said Uncle Daniel, cheerfully. 

“ A log cabin I” exclaimed Gillian. 

“ Yes, that^s my idea, niece. Supposing we turn 
your diamonds into public lands, build a new home away 
out in the wilderness, and begin life again fair and 
square ?” 

“ In the wilderness 1 What could my father do there ?” 
cried Gillian, with a half-frightened look. 

“ Do I why rest, hunt, read and be an independent 
man, to be sure. IVe got a couple of thousand dollars 
or so, laid up. That, with your pretty gimcracks, Gil- 
lian, will buy us a tract of land worth having. Then 
the log houses are some of ’em pretty as pictures. That 
sort of life would make a woman of you, right off the reel, 
niece. Oh, how your mother would have liked it' I” 

Gillian looked at her father anxiously. He seemed 
interested in the idea. It had struck him for the first 
time. 

“ Oh, Gillian, you would like it, I’m sure I” said Martha. 
“ I’ve heard all about it.” 

“You, Matty! why how?” exclaimed Daniel Hart, in 
surprise. “ What can you know about the’woods ?” 


MRS. ransom’s return. 


351 


1 1 oh, ever so much, father ! the wild strawberries — 
the grape vines tangled from tree to tree, all bending with 
purple clusters — the deer leaping twenty feet at one 
bound — ponds fall of water-lilies, and such fish — he told 
me all about them.” 

“ He ! who, darter?” 

“ Oh, my — nobody in particular : I only heard some of 
the young people talking about going West for a start in 
life.” 

Matty’s face was crimson. When Gillian smiled, she 
got back of her father’s chair, and shook her clenched 
hand with mock ferocity, fearing that the name of John 
Downs would come out. 

But Gillian only laughed, a little roguish laugh, and the 
conversation went on. 

“ But what can I do out there ?” said Gillian. 

“ You, niece I why, pick wild fruit, and search in the 
prairies for flowers,” said Daniel Hart. 

“But there will be hard work for us all.” 

“ Well, then, you must teach school.” 

“ In a log school-house — well, I can do that ; and father?” 
“ He must shoot our game, catch our fish, and see to the 
I garden, while I chop trees, make stone walls, and get the 
I crops in.” 

’ “ Isn’t that splendid ?” said Matty. 

“ We’ll have a double cabin — something grand, with an 
I outhouse for Dinah and Liz,” continued Hart, warming 
I with his subject. “ The girls shall take their books.” 

I “And a guitar; I can take that, papa?” said Gillian. 

I “We will have fine horses,” continued Hart. 

1 “And such cowsl” said Matty. 

! “ With pretty hens and chickens and dove-cotes,” said 

j Gillian. “ Papa, I’m sure we shall like it. Then perhaps— 

( 


t 


352 MRS. ransom’s RETU^JS-. 

perhaps some one else will come out and be charmed 
with our lodge in the wilderness, and settle down close 
by, and go back to Washington a Senator or something of 
that kind.” 

Mr. Bentley smiled. 

The West is sometimes a short cut to greatness,” he 
said, who knows ?” 

“ Then it is all settled ?” said Daniel Hart, rubbing his 
hard hands with honest satisfaction. “We are to go 
West 

“ Yes, yes,” answered the other voices, and the little 
party that had assembled, so downcast and sad in the 
sitting-room, broke up, quite in a glow of hopefulness. 

“ Well, now, that we are all agreed, when shall we 
start ?” said Daniel. 

“ The earlier the better,” answered Bentley. “ Let it 
be next week.” 

That night Martha Hart wrote a letter to John Downs, 
which she put into the post-office with her own hands, 
while the dew lay thick upon the meadows, exactly as her 
Aunt Sarah had sent off her heart-breaking missives years 
since. 

Ten days from that family-council in the sitting-room, 
the homestead was empty. As his father had left old 
associations in New England long ago, when York State 
was “ out- west,” and helped to plant a Yankee colony in 
Rockland county, so Daniel Hart set forth to build a new 
home for his family and that of his benefactor and brother- 
in-law. Of all that once happy household Aunt Hetty 
alone remained behind, and she would as soon have made 
her bed in a sepulchre as cross that sacred threshold 
again. 

Never in the history of litigation, perhaps, had a vast 


MRS. ransom’s return. 


S53 


property been so quietly transferred. In less than a 
month after his first demand, Hurst found himself in pos- 
session of that noble mansion in town, with all its costly 
appurtenances, and an income that one year before would 
have seemed to him something fabulous. He would 
gladly have shared this wealth with its real owners, and 
made more than one desperate effort to win Gillian after 
his advances had been peremptorily rejected. But that 
young lady positively refused to see him, and sent back 
his letters unopened, while Mr. Bentley rejected every 
overture for a compromise. 

“ No,” he said, “ the estate is yours, or it is mine. I 
accept nothing which the law does not give, and that I 
will not evoke. Let God judge between us.” 

Aunt Hetty, after her fashion, strove to make some 
restitution. She had not the courage to seek an interview 
with her family, but sent anonymous letters containing 
large sums of money, and when they were returned, wrote 
a most touching letter in her own name, beseeching her 
brother not to break her heart, but stay on the homestead 
and share some of the wealth that was killing her. 

Daniel Hart answered this letter only to say that the 
homestead was now empty, and his family were going 
with him into the wilderness. He made no reproaches, 
and said nothing of Mr. Bentley or Gillian. In giving 
up their place in fashionable life both these persons wished 
to be forgotten. Gillian w^as yet very young, and after 
two years of solitude might return to that same life wdth 
the husband of her choice, but those tw^o years she would 
devote to her father exclusively. The host of butterfly 
friends she had made might claim her then or not, accord- 
ing to their fancy. She left them almost without regret — 
all except Mrs. Kansom, and she had gone aw^ay without 
22 


854 


MRS. ransom’s return. 


a word of farewell or without leaving a message by which 
she might hereafter be found. 

In his letter to Hetty Hart, Daniel had promised to 
communicate with her once more ; and after a month or 
two came a letter saying that he and his daughter, with 
Bentley and Gillian, had settled on a tract of land far 
west, and were living comfortably together. They had 
built a double cabin, with out-houses, one of which Dinah 
and Liz occupied as a kitchen. Every thing was com- 
fortable and neat as wax. Mr. Bentley W'as growing 
strong and cheerful. The girls were happy as birds, and 
as for himself, never in all his life had he been able to put 
in such a day’s chopping as he could do now. 

This letter comforted Hetty in the grand solitude of 
her new home. It soothed her conscience, and left her, to 
a certain extent, free to enjoy the society of her son and 
the wealth which she had secured to him. She gave the 
letter to Hurst — we cannot change the name— and he 
treasured it in silence, for it contained Gillian’s address, 
and hereafter, perhaps, he might make use of it. 

Now, young, handsome, wealthy, Hurst flung himself 
into life with a cool resolve to enjoy it to the utmost. 
Out of all his resources he was determined to attain the 
utmost possible gratification. If he squandered money, it 
was for this purpose only. He bought horses, gave 
parties, lavished vast sums on the mansion which Bentley 
had already made perfect. He was the rage at Saratoga, 
and the fashion at Newport. In fact this young Bentley, 
with his immense wealth and romantic antecedents, was 
the great catch of the season. But, with all his splendor, 
a cold, aching anxiety was at his heart. The foundations 
of his greatness were unreal. Men like him are seldom 
troubled with much conscience, till they reach some lonely 


MRS. ransom’s return. 355 

death-bed ; and Hurst was far too prosperous for over-sensi- 
tiveness. But he felt unsafe. Once married to Gillian, 
and he could defy fate. But she had chosen poverty and * 
years of solitude in the western forests, rather than en- 
dure his society. The engagement with Woodworth was 
certain to end in marriage — and then ? What if the new 
husband should determine to investigate his wife’s 
claims ? Woodworth was a sharp, clear-headed lawyer, 
a man of the world, and understood well all the advan- 
tages of wealth. 

These fears lay like serpents in the path of the rich 
man ; but the intellect that had accomplished so much 
must face these dangers and overcome them. With time 
and resolution much could be done. Half his task was 
completed. Gillian must yet be his wife. He knew 
where to find her, and that was a great point gained. 

With all his audacity, Hurst had not the courage to 
seek the persons he had so deeply wronged. His resolve 
did not fail, but he put off the time, and so more than a 
year went by and with it a sense of security crept over 
him. One thing was strange. He heard nothing from 
Mrs. Ransom. The Bloomingdale cottage was still 
closed and no letters came. He heard of her once through 
some European travellers, who had seen her in Greece, 
and afterwards learned that she had crossed the desert 
with a party on its way to the Holy Land. There was 
a mystery about this which he could not fathom ; up to 
that time her protecting arm had always been over him : no 
matter how far off caprice or destiny might carry her, he 
was sure to feel the benefit of her regard in some form ; 
now she was silent as the grave. 

This silence could not have arisen from any knowledge 
of his good fortune, for she had left the country more 


'356 MRS. ransom’s return. 

than a week before that was known of a certainty, even 
to himself. These conjectures gave him considerable un- 
easiness at times, for this woman was perhaps the only 
person on earth whom he thoroughly respected and 
feared. Could he have been certain that she was dead, 
be might not have regretted it ; but, with all his courage, 
he shrunk from the thought of encountering her searching 
questions and clear judgment. 

But he was deep into the second year of his possession, 
and no word or message ever came from her. -Mrs. 
William Bentley, as he called his mother, had presided 
over his house from the beginning, but she withered in 
the stately solitude to which he after a while consigned 
her. As a single man he received but little company at 
home, and spent his life at hotels, clubs, and watering- 
places, leaving her with old Mary Nicholson for an hum- 
ble companion, and a household of servants to control. 
Such was his method of repaying the wicked sacrifice she 
had made for him. 

This sad state of things withered up the little gleam 
of hope that had dawned upon her when he first claimed 
her as a parent, and the poor woman was slowly and 
quietly dying, exactly as some poor little transplanted 
evergreen perishes for want of native soil. She had been 
^ growing ill for some weeks : now an obstinate cough set 
in, and, in her anxiety, the old housekeeper sent for the 
son, who was in the full glory of a Newport season. He 
came at once, filled with anxious solicitude, which gave j 
the poor mother a fresh hold on life. That day she 
insisted upon getting up and coming down to breakfast 
with him, in the little morning-room that opened upon the 
garden. He always insisted upon her being richly dressed : 
so she put on a pretty cap fluttering with rose-color ed J 

1 


MRS. ransom’s return. 857 

ribbons, and a robe of some rich oriental pattern, hoping 
to conceal her paleness. But Hurst saw how shadowy 
she had become at a glance, and his heart smote him. He 
drew an easy-chair, soft with velvet cushions, to the table, 
and seated her tenderly in it. The servants were all 
sent away, and he insisted on pouring out the coffee, for 
her poor little trembling hands had attempted the task in 
vain. 

The poor mother watched him with looks of yearning 
fondness, and her eyes filled with tears. When her son 
was by she could not be very sorry for the falsehood that 
had gained her the great happiness of these attentions. 

“ There, mother,” he said, stooping down to kiss her 
forehead, “ I have put in just the right quantity of cream, 
and here is a delicious French roll ; take a mouthful for 
my sake : they tell me you eat nothing 1” 

She took the roll and broke off a fragment, forcing her- 
self to eat it with apparent relish. 

“ That is right,” he said, seating himself ; “ we will soon 
have you well now.” 

She smiled and said : “ Oh, yes, I am well ; you see 
what an appetite I have.” ^ 

Just then Mrs. Nicholson came in, looking greatly flur- 
ried. 

“ What is it ?” said Hurst ; for the serpent which lay 
coiled under his good fortune was always on the alert. 

“A lady,” said Mrs. Nicholson, “ who insists on coming 
in ; she wants to see you both 1” 

Hetty looked wildly around, and began to tremble 
among her cushions. Hurst, too, was nervous, but he 
gave no sign. 

‘‘ Well, let her come in here,” he said ; “ sit still, mother. 

If the lady wishes to see us both, this is the best place.” 


358 MBS. ransom’s return. 

The door opened, and the lady came in. 

‘‘ Mrs. Ransom !” cried Hurst, starting up and reaching 
out his hand. 

The lady put his hand gently aside without clasping it. 
She had evidently come off a journey from foreign parts, 
for her dress seemed strange and old-fashioned. The soft 
hair floated down her cheeks in waves, and she wore a 
large merino shawl, with a deep palm-leaf border, such as 
had been in fashion when Hetty Hart was a girl. 

“ Is this lady your mother she said, rejecting the 
hand. 

When Hetty heard the voice, she started up from her 
easy-chair and confronted the stranger. She saw the face, 
the waving hair, the shawl with its familiar pattern — one 
just like it lay in her bureau up-stairs. Her eyes widened, 
the white lips grew cold, she grasped at the table-cloth 
for support — dragging a cup and saucer of delicate china 
to the ground. 

Hurst went up to his mother, supporting her with his 
jarm. 

“ Mrs. Ransom, this is unexpected — it is a strange re- 
# turn ! You refuse my hand — wherefore 

Hetty Hart clung to the young man ; her eyes distended 
wildly, her lips apart — she seemed turning into stone. 

“ Hush !” she said, in a hoarse whisper, “ it is my sister 
Sarah I” 

“Michael,’’ said Mrs. Ransom, quietly, “give me the 
marriage certificate which you have forged, and the letters 
you have stolen.” 

“ Madam !” 

“ Your mother says the truth. I am her sister Sarah — 
the wife of that Bentley you have defrauded — the mother 
of Grillian ! Your crime has rendered secrec}^ of no farther 


MRS. ransom’s return. 


859 


avail. I made a vow to save that poor soul from disgrace, 
and kept the vow, through what humiliation and pain 
you will never know. By her own act she has unsealed 
my lips, and I have come to claim my husband, my child 
and all that is theirs.” 

Hurst had not lost all his courage. He was white as 
death, and shivered like a dead cedar in the wind, but 
some portion of his iron nature remained firm. 

Madam, this is a flimsy imposition 1 You are not my 
mother’s sister !” 

“Ask her I” she answered, pointing to the wretched 
little woman who had sunk all in a heap among the crim- 
son cushions. “ Mehitable Hart, look up and say if I am 
not your sister !” 

“Mother, you know this is an imposition! Don’t look 
at her ; see, I am ready to help you I” 

It was in vain. Perhaps if Hurst could have fastened 
her eyes first, his terrible power over her might have pre- 
vailed, but the magnetism of another presence enthralled 
her, and those wild eyes turned on her sister, fascinated. 

“ Hetty, my poor Hetty I why are you terrified ? Did 
I ever harm you ?” said Mrs. Ransom, in a voice broken ^ 
with tender emotion. 

Hetty Hart began to shiver, and clung close to her sou. 

“ Hetty I” 

“ Oh, Sarah, don’t — don’t look at me so I He never 
would have owned me, if I hadn’t taken the shame ofi’ 
What could I do ?” 

“ I know, Hetty, I know how you must have loved this 
young man. I, too, loved him for your sake.” 

“ Oh, he is all the world to me !” 

“ Poor, poor mother I — be good to her, Michael ; treat 
her tenderly, as if she were a child. She is not one of 


360 MBS. hansom’s return. 

those who can suffer and be strong ; but she is a loving 
creature. Deal kindly by her, and you shall never want 
for wealth or any thing else that I can give.” 

“ It was for her sake — she was pining to death, my 
poor mother I” said Hurst, with some feeling. ** I could 
not bear it.” 

Well, well, it is over now. Trust me — can you trust 
me yet, sister Hetty ?” 

** Trust you I oh, Sarah !” 

‘‘ Can you be content to live with your son ?” 

“ With my son 1 — with him I” 

The little woman crept close to Hurst, and clung around 
him, weeping softly, and thanking her sister, in broken 
sentences, for having saved her and her son from the deep 
trouble that had already nearly broken her heart. 

“We will obey her. Sarah is always right — always 
kind, Michael. I knew if she could rise from the dead — 
and it seems as if she had, don’t it ? — all would turn out 
well. When shall we go, sister ? I am ready.” 

“ In a few days — in a few hours, if possible. Find out 
a quiet home in England or France, and some day I will 
• come and see how you get along.” 

“ That will be pleasant, son,” said Hetty, with a fond 
smile ; “ you and I all alone in the world. Oh, how I 
have longed for this I and it is Sarah that does it for us — 
my sister, Sarah, whom we all thought dead years ago. 
Tell her that we will be ready, son.” 

“ I have no choice,” answered Hurst, sullenly. 

“ Oh, Michael I” 

“ Well, then, Mrs. Ransom, I am willing — I am grate- 
ful. Is that enough, mad’ — mother ?” 

Hetty kissed his hands, and laid her little, withered 
cheek softly against his bosom. 


4 


MRS. ransom’s return. 


861 


Mrs. Ransom took her from his arms, kissed her upon 
the forehead, as she had done a thousand times in youth, 
and turned with tears in her eyes. 

“ Michael, give me that certificate and the letters. I 
heard all far away in the Holy Land, and came at once, 
resolved to right the wrong you have done without farther 
exposure if I could ; at all events to perform my duty. 
Give me the papers, that I may destroy them before they 
work evil to you.” 

Hurst put one hand into his bosom and drew forth a 
slip of yellow paper and some letters ; they rattled in his 
hands like dead leaves, and his face was ghastly. 

“ It is well,” she said, tearing the paper into fragments. 

Now take my sister — my poor, feeble sister, Hetty — and 
go away. There is a ship lying now in the stream, ready 
to sail for England. Here is money. I will send you 
more. Be kind to her, and you shall have plenty for 
both, I promise it.” 

Hurst took the money, dumbly, as if some statue had 
been moved by inward mechanism. 

“ But my husband, my child — first tell me where I can 
find them,” said Mrs. Ransom. 

Hurst shook his head in silence. Mrs. Ransom turned 
to her sister. 

“ I don’t know ; we had one letter,” cried the little 
woman. “It was mailed away out-west, but I cannot 
remember where, and I don’t in the least know what 
became of the letter.” 

Mrs. Ransom looked distressed. 

“ But Woodworth — the engagement is not broken off ; 
he can tell me,” she said, brightening with fresh hope. 

“ Woodworth is not in the city,” answered Hurst. “ He 
has gone South.” 


362 


MRS. RANSOM’S RETURN. 


“ Then what can I do she cried, wringing her hands 
in keen disappointment. “ I have spent so much of life 
away from them ; every moment I lose is a pang. Oh 
Hurst I if I have ever been kind or forbearing to you, 
help me now 1” 

“ How can I, when you banish me from the country 

“ But you shall not go till they are found. I will stand 
between you and all harm. This wicked secret is ours 
yet.” 

Hurst walked across the room ; his face was white as 
ever when he came back, but the gleam of a quick idea 
brightened it with keen intelligence. 

“ Madam, if any effort of mine to find those you love 
can atone for the pain I have given, tell me what to do, 
and I will not fail you.” 

“ Bind my husband and my child,” she cried, passion- 
ately. “ I will travel to the ends of the earth for them, 
but every lost moment is a sacrifice, and I do not know 
what course to take.” 

“ Trust me ; I will find them.” 

“You, Michael, and they your enemies I” moaned his 
mother. 

“ She demands it, and I will not shrink,” answered the 
young man. “ Be content, mother ; I leave you in her 
care.” 

The poor mother drew a deep breath, and turned her 
eyes in wild pleading on her sister. 

“ It will be like old times for you and I to be together,” 
said Mrs. Hansom, kneeling before the frail woman and 
drawing the pale face caressingly to her shoulder. 

“ Yes, yes, it will be like old times, when we made dan- 
delion chains in the back meadow,” answered the little 
woman, with a hysterical laugh. 




MRS. ransom’s return. 863 

"Madam, I will start at once; it may be a month or 
two before I send you intelligence, but it shall come I” 

"Ah, Michael, that will redeem every thing. Have 
no fear of them : they are generous and noble I” 

"I am sure of it,” he answered. "Now, mother, fare- 
well I in a few weeks we shall meet again : till then, stay 
here with your sister.” 

The little woman stood up, tottering from weakness. 
She clung around her son, moaning over him like a 
wounded dove. 

" Good-by, darling I Be good, and come back free of 
all blame ; then, as Sarah says, we will go off and live by 
ourselves — no club-houses — no watering-places — nothing 
but a nice, quiet home !” 

Hurst smiled a cruel, cold smile, that bespoke some 
desperate idea ; but his mother was raining kisses on his 
face, and no one saw it. 

Then they parted. Hurst left the house in less than 
one hour after Sarah Bentley entered it, and she bade God 
bless him as he went. Her faith in human goodness was 
wonderful, and she did not once doubt that the young 
man would redeem his faults. So she stood at the win- 
dow and saw him pass away .very hopefully. Hetty had 
crept to her side and was watching him also ; but tears 
swelled in her eyes, and there was a struggle for breath 
in her chest — a struggle that left ridges of red foam on 
her pale lips, which she strove to wipe away unseen. 

But Sarah Bentley saw the stain on her delicate hand- 
kerchief with a thrill of apprehension. 

" Why, Hetty, what is that ?” 

" Nothing ; it’s of no consequence — I’m used to it 1” 

" Since when, Hetty ?” 

" Oh, ever since that day when I told him I” 

V 


864 THE WESTERN CLEARING. 


“ But you will be better now. Remember what a fa- 
mous nurse I was I” 

“ Oh, yes, I shall be better with you 1 But tell me, 
Sarah, is he quite gone ? I — I cannot see very far, the 
air is so foggy 1” 

Poor soul, it was the mist of a broken heart going off in 
tears 1 

This was the idea that had started up from the first 
sense of ruin that fell on Michael Hurst when Sarah 
Bentley asked after her husband. 

“ I will find them,” he said — Uncle DaniePs letter was 
in his pocket then — “ I will find them, and marry the girl 
with her will or against it, and her father shall not stand 
in the way I If he hunts in the wilderness, so do I. Men 
are often taken for deer and shot by accident. If he op- 
poses me, I shall be ready, at any rate. That proud girl 
shall come back to her mother my wife ; and if Julia Ran- 
som finds herself a widow, it will teach her to be less offi- 
cious. Does she think that, after tasting the pleasures 
and powers of wealth for one little year, it can be easily 
wrested from me ? Not while I have brains to think, and 
the courage to strike 1 No, I will have the girl and 
keep her money ! They have made a desperate man of 
me I Now, Westward, ho I and every one for himself!” 


CHAPTER XXXYIII. 

THE WESTERN CLEARING. 

It was a wild clearing in the heart of a Western forest. 
A stout, athletic man was at work in one corner, and each 
lusty stroke of his axe, as it was swung into the heart of 


THE WESTERN CLEARING. 865 

a giant chestnut, reverberated cheerfully through the 
woods. The morning was bright, and the air rich with 
the commingled perfume of mosses, flowers and foliage 
gathered up from the wilderness. The early sunshine 
danced among the boughs over our woodman’s head, and 
every blow of his axe brought a storm of dew down to 
the daisies and strawberry vines which he was treading to 
death beneath his heavy shoes. 

Though the morning was deliciously cool and breezy, 
the workman stopped now and then to inhale a deep 
breath and wipe the perspiration from his forehead, and 
at each time he cast a glance of good-natured anxiety over 
the logs rolled together in heaps, and the forest of newly- 
made stumps that stood glistening in the sunshine, yet full 
of sap and with tufts of green still clinging to their broken 
bark. But though his eye took in every object which lay 
between him and the double log-cabin that stood on the 
opposite verge of the clearing, it invariably lingered last 
and longest on the thong of newly-cut leather which, 
from the distance, he could just see dangling through a 
gimlet-hole in the door from the wooden latch which 
secured it within. 

There was hunger and some little desire for rest 
in those frequent glances toward the slender cloud of 
smoke that went curling up from the stick-chimney of 
his dwelling. At last he planted his axe against the 
massive trunk which it had half-cut away, and was rolling 
down his shirt sleeves, when the latch-string began to 
vibrate before his eye. After a moment the cabin door 
opened, and a young man came out with a rifle in his 
handj and dressed in a green hunting-shirt. 

“ Halloa 1” exclaimed Daniel Hart, with a sort of half 
whistle, as he buttoned his wristband j “ arly and late 


366 THE WESTEEN CLEARING. 


that chap is always a-hanging round our premises. I 
calculate that it ain’t very difficult to guess why the gal 
was so long a-getting breakfast.” 

Daniel had scarcely buttoned his second wristband when 
a young girl in a plain calico-dress appeared in the cabin 
door with a napkin in her hand, which she flung up as a 
signal for breakfast. 

“ Oh, yes, she can call me now,” said Daniel, taking up 
his old straw-hat from the grass, “but before I eat or 
drink I must know what brings that John Downs into 
Jhese diggins so often : when foxes begin to prowl round 
a hen-coop in the daytime, it looks dangerous.” 

“I say, John Downs, halloa, this way a minute !” and 
as Daniel Hart uttered this shout he swung his hat in the 
air — an unnecessary signal, for his voice might have been 
heard far into the woods. 

I 

The young hunter turned and came across the clearing, 
and though he swung his rifle about with a dashing air, 
Daniel could see that his face was crimson as he drew 
near ; but a fine, handsome face it was, Daniel could not 
deny that, though he did exert himself to look ferocious, 
and got up a frown, as he approached, that seemed much 
out of place on that broad, frank forehead. 

“Well, John, what brings you in these parts so soon 
again ?” inquired Daniel Hart, putting on his old straw 
hat and folding his arms over his broad chest. “ Don’t 
think of settling out-west, nor any thing, do you ?” 

“ Well,” said John Downs, blushing still more deeply, 
“ I don’t know how it will be. A chap can’t always 
make his home in the woods, you’ll agree to that, I sup- 
pose ?” 

Daniel nodded his head, and replied, 

“ Just so, John.” 


' THE WESTERN CLEARING. 86,7 

“Well,” continued John, gathering courage from his 
companion’s assent, “ I have a sort of fancy to settle 
down before long, and clear up a farm for myself Game 
is getting scarce, and I begin to feel rather lonesome 
camping out at nights so much.” 

“And how are you a-going to pay for the land ?” in- 
quired Daniel, folding his arms more tightly over his 
chest; “wild lands are cheap out here, true enough ; but 
yet government won’t be satisfied with any thing less 
than cash on the nail.” 

“ I know that,” replied the young man with a bright- 
ening eye ; “ but I’ve got three hundred dollars let out to 
Judge Church, down on The Bend.” 

“ Well, but you haven’t taken a notion to my property 
here, have you ?” inquired Daniel, with a shrewd smile. 
“ You don’t want me to sell out, nor nothing ?” 

“ No,” stammered the young hunter, crushing a tuft of 
wild pinks beneath the butt of his rifle to hide his em- 
barrassment, “ but I’ve been thinking ” 

“ Well, there isn’t nothing very uncommon in that, is 
there ?” said Daniel, laughing as the young man hesitated 
and blushed like a girl. 

“No, Mr. Hart, no, I may as well out with it,” cried 
Downs, setting down his rifle hard, and speaking with des- 
1 perate rapidity ; “ I meant to talk with you about it in 
I a day or two, any way ; but as we are on the subject, 

I supposing we finish it at once. There is Martha, your 
I daughter : we have been acquainted three years come 
fall, in Rockland county and out here, anc; if you ain’t 
willing to let her keep house for me, it don’t make much 
odds whether I have a farm or take to the woods again. 
One thing is certain — I shan’t be very contented any- 
where.” 


368 THE WESTERN CLEARING. 

There, now, you’ve spoken up like a man 1” replied 
Daniel, frankly extending his hand ; “ I cannot spare the 
gal, for she’s all I have' to depend on ; but don’t look so 
down in the mouth about it. I’ll tell you what we can 
do : take up your three hundred dollars and buy the lot 
that lies next ag’in mine and her Dncle Bentley’s farm. 
There is our cabin already built, and a housekeeper in it. 
Martha won’t make a worse daughter for me because she 
is your wife,” and Daniel Hart pointed to his dwelling 
with a smile on his face, yet a single tear brightened in 
his eye ; for the love which he bore his daughter was the 
most holy feeling of his life. 

“ I never was so happy !” exclaimed Downs, grasping 
the rough hand of his father-ia-law and giving it a vigor- 
ous shake. ^^‘And Martha, dear girl — she thought you 
must miss her help, and would not consent to go away. I 
left her with tears in her eyes.” 

“ She is a nice gal,” replied Daniel, drawing the back 
of his rough hand across his eyes. “ I only hope she will 
make you as good a wife as her mother was to me.” 

“ I know that Martha loves me ; she told me as 
much this morning, and I’m not afraid of the rest,” said 
Downs. 

“ Of course,” said Hart ; IJwhat is there to fear? But 
see, Martha is at the door ; t|ie breakfast will get cold ; 
come in and we will talk it all over.” 

Downs took up his rifle, and the two went toward the 
house together. 

Scarcely had Daniel Hart and his companion closed the 
cabin-door after them, when a horseman came from a cart- 
path leading through the woods, and dismounted near the 
chestnut. He looked cautiously around, saw the great 
gap cut in the trunk of the tree, and driving his horse back 


THE WESTERN CLEARING. 869 

into the woods again, tied it to a sapling down in an ab- 
rupt hollow which concealed them from the clearing. 

When the man appeared once more in the open space, 
he took up Daniel’s axe, examined it closely while he dis- 
lodged the tiny chips that clung to its edge, and tried its 
sharpness with the ball of his thumb. 

“ The chips are moist and green yet ; the helve is warm 
with the old man’s handling. I may as well make myself 
scarce at once, for the crusty fellow will be hanging round 
home till night : I am certain of that from the way he has 
begun his day’s work.” 

As the young man muttered these discontented words 
to himself, he set down the axe and moved away as if to 
seek the woods again ; but as he turned his head and cast 
a look toward the cabin, he gave, a start ; his eyebrows 
worked and knit themselves over his flashing eyes, and 
with a half-suppressed oath he looked around as if to as- 
certain some means of reaching the cabin which might not 
expose his person to the inmates'. 

‘‘ There were two. I saw them through the window. 
Who is he ? Let me make him out — let me but fasten an 
eye on him and he is done for. Woodworth, nor any 
other man, shall cross my path now and live !” 

Once more he sent an oath through his grinding teeth, 
and plunged into the hollow where his horse was tied. 
The fine animal turned his head and greeted his coming 
with a low neigh ; but his master lifted his heavy boot and 
gave the poor creature a kick that made him wheel and 
run back with a violence that almost tore the sapling up 
by the roots. 

“ By Jove, you had better stop that I” exclaimed the 
man, infuriated by the noise, and giving the bridle a sav- 
age jerk. 

28 


370 THE WESTERN CLEARING. 


“ Stand still, stand still, or I’ll bleed you with a new- 
fashioned lancet I” he exclaimed, through his shut teeth, 
and drawing a bowie-knife from beneath his hunting-shirt, 
he plunged his arm back to drive it into the heart of the 
rearing animal. But, as if comprehending his danger, the 
beast leaped back with a fierce impetuosity that broke the 
sapling sheer in twain, and plunged down the hollow just 
time enough to escape the fearful blow launched at his 
chest. So fierce bad been bis attempt upon the horse that 
Hurst lost his balance and fell forward to the ground, 
ploughing the rich earth up with his knife for half a yard 
before he could recover himself. The furious man started 
up, gazed after the horse an instant, then shaking the soil 
from his knife, be thrust it back to his bosom with a low^ 
savage laugh. 

“You have saved me a hundred dollars by that plunge, 
old fellow,” he said, still gasping with passion. “ I was 
a double fool to let you break loose, though. Mike, Mike, 
easy, boy, easy I Come back, so-ho — so-so !” 

It was surprising that a voice so fearfully savage the 
moment before could have been modulated on the instant 
to the low, silky, and wheedling tones which this man 
adopted in persuading the horse back to his keeping again. 
It sounded through the woods like the mellow tone of a 
bird calling for his mate. But the horse plunged on till 
the call terminated in a low, sweet whistle. He had leaped 
across a rivulet which ran gurgling along the depths o^ 
the hollow, and his front hoofs were buried deep in the op- 
posite ascent when that whistle came sighing through the > 
bushes. He stopped suddenly, with his ears still laid back 
and his hoofs on high. A shiver ran through his limbs, 
His ears began to tremble as they arose to their natural 
position — ^his forefeet sunk slowly down, and, wheeling 


THE WESTERN CLEARING. 371 


gently round, he crossed the brook and crept up the hill, 
like a hoAnd called hack from the chase. 

“ So, old fellow, you have come back, have you ?” mut- 
tered Hurst, tying the broken bridle and tightening the 
knot across his knee with both hands ; “ it’s well for you 
that I have no other horse to carry me to The Bend — now 
see if you can stand quiet, will you 

This speech terminated with another oath, while 
Hurst knotted the bridle to the splintered trunk of the 
sapling^and moved away. He crept stealthily around the 
edge of the clearing, taking care to conceal his progress 
by the underbrush that grew thickly in that portion of the 
wood. At length he reached the little patch of vegeta- 
bles which lay between the forest and the back windows 
of the cabin ; here he paused a moment, peered anxiously 
through the thick foliage to the right and the left, then part- 
ing the branches with his hands, he stole softly forth, and, 
darting across the garden, crouched down beneath one of 
the windows, where he lay for two or three minutes hold- 
ing his breath and afraid to stir a limb, lest he should 
agitate the creeping plants that clung around the window, 
and thus give notice of his presence. 

At length he arose cautiously, first to one knee, then to 
a stooping, and, at last, to an upright, position, which 
brought his face to a level with the window. He lifted 
his hands, and parted the net-work of convolvules and 
ri^vering beans that draped the sash, with a cat-like 
caution that scarcely shook a drop of dew from the host 
of purple-bells that clustered around him. Having thus 
made an opening which commanded the interior of the 
cabin, he remained motionless, except that now and then 
1 his fingers clutched themselves together, and once he 
1 unconsciously crushed a cluster of the scarlet bean- 


I 


872 THE WESTERN CLEARINa. 

flowers which fell against his palm with a violence that 
shook the whole vine.' 

What a tranquil and happy scene it was that the bad 
man gazed upon ! In the centre of the cabin stood a 
small table, covered with a coarse cloth of snow-white 
linen, a plate of savory ham — ^the ruddy color of each 
slice relieved by the pearly and golden circle of an egg, 
which formed a tempting mound upon it — stood in the 
centre, warm corn-bread, a plate of potatoes, with their 
dark coats torn just enough to reveal a tempting and 
mealy richness at heart, a saucer of wild honey, and 
another of golden butter, composed the wholesome re- 
past, of which Daniel Hart and his guest were partaking. 

The farmer had filled his plate a second time. Hard 
labor and the morning air had given him a keen appetite, 
and his thirst seemed in proportion, for Martha was hold- 
ing forth, but without lifting her eyes to his face, his 
third cup of rye coffee, on which the heavy cream was 
mounting like a foam, when Hurst looked in upon the 
peaceful group. 

Downs ate but little, and Martha — pretty, warm-hearted 
Martha Hart — did nothing but blush every time she 
lifted her eyes from the bright tin coffee-pot, and deluge 
every cup she filled with a double quantity of cream, that 
little brown hand of hers was so very unsteady. It 
seemed so strange for her to sit there, with her father 
directly opposite, and John Downs lifting those bright, 
saucy eyes to her face every other minute, and then drop- < 
ping them as if he knew perfectly well that he ought to 
be ashamed of himself there before her father. It was 
as much as Martha could manage to sit still and wait on 
the table. It seemed a marvel that her dear old father , 
could eat so heartily. Every thing seemed looking at 


THE WESTERN CLEARIN’ a. 373 

her with peculiar meaning. The old house-dog there on 
the hearth, the cat, as she moved demurely across the room, 
the purple morning-glories trembling around the windows, 
all appeared perfectly aware that every thing was settled 
between her and John Downs, but rather astonished that 
the old man should take it all so quietly, when they had 
everyone of them heard him protest a, thousand times 
that it would be the death of him if she were ever to 
think of getting married. 

Martha tried to act as if nothing particular had hap- 
pened. She was frightened to death at the idea of meet- 
ing her father’s eyes, and as for John Downs, it really was 
too bad ! Why on earth did he keep looking at her from 
under those long eyelashes 1 She was perfectly certain 
in her own heart that she had never once looked at him 
since they sat down to breakfast : nothing in the world 
would tempt her to do any thing so forward 1 Dear, 
pretty Matty Hart I how did she know that the young 
man at her left, in the green hunting-shirt, was looking at 
her, if she never turned her eyes that way ? The conical- 
shaped coffee-pot, with its streaming contents shut in by 
a lid marvellously like an overgown extinguisher, was 
bright as hands could make it, but not quite brilliant 
enough to reflect the motions of her lover. Still Martha 
Hart was very positive that she had given Downs no 
sort of encouragement to look at her in that way, and, of 
course, she knew best, for the flowers that trembled and 
shook off their dew, and seemed laughing at her through 
the window, were not more modest or innocent than 
Martha Hart with all her coquettish ways. 

At length, when Daniel Hart had transferred the last 
morsel of ham from the plate to his lips, and drained' his 


374 THE WESTERN CLEARING. 


coffee-cup for the third time, he drew back his chair and 
looked at Downs. 

“ Well, now, John, I am readjto talk over the business 
as soon as you’ve a mind to ” 

Daniel Hart was here interrupted in his speech, for 
Martha recollected that moment that she had no spring- 
water in the house, and the haste which she made to get 
her sun-bonnet and lift the pail to her arm quite discon- 
certed the whole party, but it was only for a moment. 
Daniel settled back in his chair again, after giving a 
glance at her burning face as she lifted the wooden door- 
latch, and muttering to himself, 

“ Well, well, it’s only human nature : I was young once 
myself,” he addressed Downs again. 

And there was that vile man listening to every word 
which passed between the honest farmer and his son-in- 
law — he heard it all — how John Downs had taken a 
fancy to Martha long ago in Dockland county — how he 
had sold out all his possessions, consisting of a span of 
horses, a yoke of oxen, and some young cattle, and started 
off West, in less than a month after the Hart family left the ' 
county. He had deposited his money with Judge Church, 
and was determined to buy land, and settle down in the 
neighborhood ; but Martha had put him off and off, till 
he was almost discouraged — or had been till half an hour' 
ago : now he was just the happiest fellow on earth. 
Just as if it made any difference about the Bentleys : he 
was as ready to work for that noble man and hand- J 
some girl, as if they were his own blood relations — only | 
give him a chance, that was all. [\ 

Hurst saw the brown hands of these honest men i 
grasp over the table, and knew that he had another strong d 
spirit to contend against. j| 


THE WESTERN CLEARING. 875 

Hurst was crouchiug amid the vines as Martha passed 
him, with the water pail on her arm, and the love-light 
brightening her eyes and sending its red to her cheeks. 
Her garments almost touched him as she turned a corner 
of the cabin, but he held his breath and shrunk close to 
the logs, listening to the conversation within, even while 
his kindling eyes followed the young and happy creature 
as she passed with a light step into the woods. When 
she had entirely disappeared he turned his eyes inward 
again, bent his ear, like a hound, and pressed his face 
close to the matted foliage, that no word passing between 
the two men at the table might escape him,/ He learned 
from their conversation that Gillian and her father had 
ridden forth at daylight to explore a tract of land, which 
they all thought of adding to the farm, and that Mr. 
Woodworth was expected soon, when he might carry 
Gillian away, and all must be settled before then. If 
they liked the land, it would be paid for to-morrow ; the 
money lay ready at the Bend. As for Gillian, she was 
expecting her lover every moment. Then there would be 
a wedding in the settlement, and one bright face less in 
the cabin. After some ten minutes, Hurst drew stealthily 
back, darted into a patch of early corn that came up 
almost to one end of the cabin, and winding noiselessly 
through it, cautious as a serpent, not to shake a single 
silken tuft that streamed from the half-ripened ears, he 
entered the woods again. 

“ So soon I so soon I quick work, but I am ready — the 
job pleases me — it pleases me — so — so, fool — stand still, 
What, afraid of the knife yet? It has better fare on 
hand — so — so 

These words were uttered after Hurst entered the hol- 
low where his horse was tied. He had been fingering the 

\ 


876 THE WESTERN CLEARING. 

haft of his knife while muttering to himself, and partly 
drew it from his bosom as he came up. The still restive 
animal started at the gleam of the blade, which gave rise 
to the half-savage, half-soothing words which his master 
uttered as he unknotted the bridle. After looking cau- 
tiously over his shoulder, Hurst mounted to his saddle, 
^ and crossing the cart-path rode leisurely toward the spring 
where Martha Hart had gone a few minutes before. 

A happy girl was Martha, as she passed through those 
thick woods down to the little spring which supplied the 
household with water I Every object around her bore a 
thrice pleasant look. When she turned down the little 
foot-path and came in sight of the fountain, it was gushing 
up quick and bright, with a sweet impetuosity, like the 
sensations of her own pure heart. It seemed rejoicing 
with her, smiling on her. How sweetly it flashed up from 
its mossy basin, dimpling and laughing as the arrowy 
sunshine darted through the heavy mass of foliage over- 
head and broke in a golden shower on the rivulet that 
danced down through the rich turf carpeting the earth all 
around. It fell athwart the roots of that gnarled old oak 
that twisted in and out among the rocks just above, like a 
knot of huge serpents charmed to sleep by the soft lullaby 
0/ the waters — and on the little hollow, choked up with 
fern -leaves, where the pretty stream lost itself and plunged 
into the earth again. 

Martha came along the path, smiling unconsciously. 
She sat down beneath the shadow of the rock, with the 
water almost kissing her feet. A bird was overhead, and 
it began to sing till the leaves around its hiding-place 
shivered again, but she did not listen to the bird. Why 
should she ? There was music enough in her own heart I 
She had trodden upon a tuft of wild blossoms, and the air 


THE WESTERN CLEARING. 


37T 


was perfumed with their dying breath, but she only knew 
that every thing was very lovely and tranquil around her. 
The very foliage and the glimpses of sky shining through, 
seemed rejoicing over her head like old friends, longing to 
come nearer and bless her. Her heart was brimming with 
joy ; tears, the highest and rnost blissful drops that ever 
fell from the blossoms of a young heart, sparkled in those 
soft eyes ; and there she sat, so quiet and motionless, 
bending a little forward like a wood-lily on its stalk, and 
none but the Almighty, who loves the joy of an innocent 
heart, knew how pure and entire that happiness was. 

All at once a shadow fell on the spirit of that young 
girl. One of those strange, intuitive feelings, which seem 
like spirit-tones in the heart, came over her. ^here was 
no unusual noise in the forest, and yet she bent her ear to 
listen ; still no sound, save the soft hum of summer insects, 
and such beautiful things as love the solitude, arose to 
startle her ; but the feeling of dread was in her heart, she 
put back the mass of curls that had fallen over her shoulder, 
and listened still more intently. It %oas a sound, the 
tramp of a horse mellowed and broken by the forest turf. 
Certain that it was the approach of an enemy, Martha 
snatched her sun-bonnet from the ground, and, hastily 
filling her pail from the spring, turned breathlessly into 
the path. It was too late for escape I scarcely had she 
advanced half a dozen paces, when Hurst appeared in a 
curve of the path. She turned into the wood, though the 
undergrowth was so thickly tangled there that it seemed 
almost impossible to force a passage through. Hurst 
sprang from his horse and left it standing across the path, 
as he came quickly towards the breathless and startled 
girl. 

“ What, Martha, you are determined to fight shy yet ?” 


378 


THE WESTERN CLEARING. 


exclaimed the vile man, pressing close to the struggling 
girl, and attempting to take the pail from her hand. 

“ Come, come, give it up ; it’s too heavy ; you bend under 
it like a sugar-cane in the wind. Let me carry it, I say.” 

He took the pail forcibly from her hand as he spoke, and 
dashed half the water to the ground. 

“ Never mind,” he said, with a disagreeable laugh ; 

“ we can go down to the spring an^ fill it again. I want 
to talk with vou. Where is Gillian ?’ 

“ Gone out to ride. What do you wish to say ?” fal- 
tered the terrified girl. “ I thought you would not come 
again. I must go home — my father is waiting.” 

“ Thought I should not come again ? A pretty fellow 
I should be to take that proud girl at her first word. No, 
no. Miss Martha, I do not so easily give up an idea when 
it once gets into my head. Such girls as Gillian are 
scarce here in the bush.” 

While he spoke, Hurst swung the half-empty pail on 
one arm, and forcing Martha’s hand through the other, 
dragged her toward the path. 

“ I do not wish to go down there — I will not, unless you 
drag me from the spot by force,” said Martha, wringing 
her hand suddenly from the hold he had fixed upon it, and 
darting up the hill with the speed of a deer. She rushed 
through the cabin-door and pulled the latch-string in. 

Hurst made one bound after her, then paused and lis- 
tened. He saw Daniel Hart and Downs going toward the 
clearing, and heard the sound of hoofs coming softly over 
the forest sward close by. There was but one horse, and 
he trod daintily as if guided by a lady. 

It is Gillian, and she has left her father behind, was 
Hurst’s thought. What did he care for Martha Hart 
then ? His sole object in detaining her had been to gain 


THE WESTERN CLEARING. 


879 


f 


some intelligence of Gillian — and there she was alone in 
the woods. His heart stood still ; thoughts flashed through 
his brain like lightning ; there was his opportunity. Gil- 
lian once in his power, what force could ever rescue her ? 
One bold dash, and the fortune for which he had dared 
perdition, and the woman whom he adored and hated in 
the same breath would be his. Woodworth might come 
to find his promised bride another man’s wife. 

Hurst turned sharply, and went down to the woods. 
Gillian was riding quietly under the trees, enjoying the 
grateful shade. A crimson scarf, which was twisted round 
her neck, seemed to light up the path her horse was taking. 
She had left her father a mile back. There was a fresh 
clearing to be made, and he had turned aside to examine 
the timber, leaving Gillian to loiter on her way home and 
enjoy the shadowy repose of the woods. She had paused 
a dozen times within the last half mile — now to gather a 
handful of berries from the smaller growth of trees, and 
again to trace the delicate green vines as they trailed their 
scarlet berries along the forest moss and embroidered it 
with an exquisite woof of tiny leaves and fruit-drops. 
Then she came to a half-decayed stump, frosted all over 
with pale apple-gum moss, woven in thickly, as it were, 
with coral. Gillian’s love of the beautiful in nature was 
intense. She could not traverse a path in the woods with- 
out stopping every ten minutes to examine some object 
of interest. When she saw this stump frosted with a rich 
overgrowth she sprang from her horse and began to gather 
some of the finest tufts in her hand. The horse, accus- 
tomed to these delays, turned aside, browsing lazily on a 
young birch thicket that grew near. 

“Beautiful! oh, how very beautiful it is!” she said, 
holding up her red-beaded moss in a beam of sunshine 


380 


THE WESTEEN CLEAEIN’Q. 


that slanted through the trees. “ What a world of lovely 
things I shall have to show him when he comes I” 

“ Miss Bentley !” 

Gillian started, and dropped the moss from her hand ; 
for there, on the other side of the stump, stood Michael 
Hurst. 

“ Miss Bentley, fortune has for once been in my favor. 
I have another opportunity to urge my suit,” he said, hold- 
ing out his hand. 

Gillian turned away in haughty silence. Twice before, 
within a fortnight, this man had persecuted her with his 
unwelcome importunities, and she was weary of repulsing 
him. Besides, she was alone in the woods, and his pres- 
ence always struck her with a sort of terror. 

He saw this, and a smile crept over his white lips. 

“ Lady, this is hard,” he said. 

She turned upon him like a young eagle. . 

Sir, three times I have given you an ^answer to pro- 
posals which offend me I The property that I solemnly 
think belongs to my father, you have got ; we gave it up 
I without contest. Be content with that, and spare me 
farther importunity. ” 

“ Gillian, you will not understand me. The property 
which you’ surrender is nothing unless you share it. The 
very possession drives me mad. I have followed you here 
into the wilderness, praying, beseeching you to share this 
wealth. I love you, Gillian. God only knows how wildly 
I love you.” 

Gillian would not listen, but turned away in proud 
silence, looking anxiously toward her horse. 

Hurst followed close. 

“ You will not listen— -you will not answer ?” he said, 
fiercely. 


THE WESTEKN CLEARING. 


881 


“ No, I will not listen — I will not answer I” she replied. 
How often shall I tell you that my hand is pledged — my 
faith given ? Step aside, sir, and let me pass I” 

Hurst got between her and the horse. She turned 
desperately and ran along the path. 

Hurst sprang after her. A hound in full cry could not 
have leaped more fiercely forward. He grasped her arm, 
turned her round with a jerk, and when her pale face was 
close to his he laughed j not, as might have been expected, 
a coarse, ruffianly laugh ; but low and sweet, with a tone 
that frightened the heart it thrilled, 

“ Come, girl, come 1 I do not want to frighten you. Go 
down to the spring — I have a great many things to talk 
over. How can you tremble so, close by the man that 
loves you better than any thing on earth 

And, with a reed-like bend of his fine form, Hurst 
threw his arm around Gillian’s waist, and attempted 
rather to persuade than force her toward the spring. 

'' I will not move a step. I cannot. Oh, Mr. Hurst, 
pray let me go I you frighten me almost to death I” cried 
the poor girl, trembling in every limb, while her ashy 
lips quivered with terror. 

“ How foolish you are, Gillian, to fear from one man — 
an old lover and true friend — that which pleases you in a 
fellow like one I could mention,” said Hurst, girding her 
waist more firmly with his arm, speaking in a mellow and 
persuasive voice — a voice which sounded so like that of 
Woodworth that Gillian raised her large eyes to his face 
in wonder and new dread,, but they sunk to the earth 
again, shocked by the conflicting passions which met their 
gaze in that handsome but evil face. 

“ Come, have done with all this childish nonsense,” con- 
tinued Hurst, “ I only want a fair hearing. You were too 


382 


THE WESTERN CLEARING. 


hasty the other day, when I came like an honest man and 
asked you to marry me, and I, like a fool, went off with 
my cause half argued. Stop, stop, there is no getting 
off now : I must be heard.” 

But Gillian writhed in the clasp of his strong arm, and 
looked wildly over his shoulder in hopes of aid from the 
house. 

“ Say what you wish, here, then,” she said, wild with ter- 
ror ; “I will listen — take your arm away, and let me sit 
down — I will hear all that you have to say, if you do this.” 

“ What, you would get a little nearer the house, and 
scream if I only lifted my eyes to that pretty white face 
of yours ? No, no, Miss Gillian, I am not to be cheated 
in this way ;” and, flinging his disengaged arm also 
around her person, Hurst lifted her from the ground and 
moved rapidly toward *his horse. The poor girl strug- 
gled, her head fell back on his shoulder, and her terror 
found voice in a single sharp cry. 

“ Hush 1” said Hurst, turning his face till she could 
feel the warm breath as it poured from his clenched 
teeth. “ Hush, I say, or I shall be forced to quiet you 
with my handkerchief.” 

He moved toward his horse as he spoke, set her on the 
ground, still grasping her arm with one iron hand, as he 
sprang to his saddle and attempted to drag her up after 
him. 

Another cry, sharp with terrible agony, broke from the 
lips of that poor girl. It was followed by a rushing 
sound in the path above — the crash of branches, the leap 
of a strong man, and the shout of a fierce voice in its 
rage. 

“ Villain I — Villain !” With this fierce cry Daniel Hart 
plunged like a lion down to the spot where his niece was 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 383 


lying, pale and senseless on the earth. He sprung over 
her body with his arms outstretched and his eyes on fire — 
for one instant his iron hand clutched the folds of Hurst’s 
hunting-shirt, but it was wrested from him by the violent 
leap taken that instant by the goaded horse, as he. wheeled 
and darted up the path and out of sight, it seemed, with 
a single bound. 

“ Oh, if I had my rifle I” exclaimed Daniel Hart, in a 
hoarse whisper, as he lifted Gillian from the earth and 
laid her down again, for the stout man shook with rage, 
and that moment he was weak as an infant — “ if I but had 
my rifle !” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 

About ten miles from the residence of Daniel Hart, one 
of the largest tributary streams of the Mississippi made 
a sudden sweep inward, like a bent bow, embracing a rich 
tract of alluvial or bottom land in its curve, and forcing its 
outer banks back into the shelter of a range of hills, more 
broken and picturesque than is usually found in scenery 
composed almost equally of wood and prairie land. 

Just within the curve of this bow, or directly on “ The 
Bend,” as the inhabitants called the plain which swept 
out from the embrace of the river, stood the county-seat. 
The entire district was but sparsely inhabited, and, as yet, 
the county towm consisted only of a few log-cabins, half- 


384 THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 

buried in luxurious corn-fields, two or three young 
orchards filled with trees, that had only decked them- 
selves in the blossoms of a single spring, and one great 
frame dwelling, with verandas running across the front, 
and two ^himneys of new bricks standing on the expanse 
of glistening shingles, like members of a volunteer militia 
company in flowing regimentals, whose pride it was to 
keep guard over the humble log-cabins and stick-chimneys 
which lay below. 

A blacksmith^s shop, so open in front that you could 
see the glowing iron even in winter as it poured a torrent 
of sparks from the huge hammer which ground it to the 
anvil, stood opposite the tavern ; and this, with the noise 
of carpenters still at work in the interior of the building, 
lent a sort of bustle and business aspect to “ The Bend,” 
which those who visited it found rather cheerful and . ex- 
citing after the dim solitude of their forest-homes. 

A flour-mill, too, clattered cheerfully night and day in 
a hollow close by the river, and there was scarcely a day 
in the week when a group of men might not have been 
observed loitering around Judge Church’s tavern. 

It was Saturday, about five da^s after the visit of 
Michael Hurst to the Hart clearing, and the strangers 
gathered around the blacksmith’s shop and tavern toward 
sunset were more than usually numerous. Three or four 
farmers had come from a remote part of the county with 
wagon-loads of grain, which could scarcely be converted 
into flour before the next day. Others had brought their 
horses to be shod, and, meeting with cheerful company at 
the tavern, were in no haste to return home. 

The evening came on warm and sultry, but the black- 
smith was hard at wmrk ; the sound of his anvil rang 
over the village, and the glare of his forge reddened 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 


S85 


around him as the beautiful sunset fell through a bank 
of hazy clouds on the landscape without. A horse of 
light bay color, finely limbed, and with the look of a high- 
blooded racer, was tied with a stout bridle to an iron ring 
at the door-post, but though the hot sparks sometimes 
flashed close by his eyes, they only kindled, up a little, as 
if some of the fire had shot beneath the lids ; and though 
his nostrils dilated, he neither pulled at the halter nor 
seemed restive, for once when he had ru^back a little, a 
voice from the opposite tavern checked the fretful impulse, 
and left him standing with his eye to the flame, but with 
a slack halter and shrinking limbs. To the poor animal 
there was something in that voice more terrible than the 
shower of hot sparks that rained over him. 

The voice came from a young man seated in the lower ver- 
anda of the tavern. His chair was tilted back, and his right 
foot rested upon his left knee, and though the fringe of his 
hunting-frock swept over a portion of the boot, its small 
size and unusually neat workmanship could not be entirely 
concealed. The man wore a fine otter-skin cap, which, 
being drawn over his face, left the upper part in shadow, 
but waves of thick hair curled up among the rich fur 
about his temples, %nd his somewhat prominent chin, 
upon which the light lay strong, was so delicately moulded 
that in repose his features seemed almost effeminate. 

This man sat with half-closed eyes, smoking. Now 
and then, as he bent slightly forward to knock the ashes 
from his cigar against the sole of his boot, he glanced his 
eye through the bar-room window, which was open a 
little to his right, and seemed to listen. At such times 
the shadow which fell over his eyes was thrown on the 
temple, and the whole character of his face changed. It 
was a restless, wicked eye, which lighted up every fea- 
24 


386 * THE BODY IX THE WOODS. 

ture with evil fire. This must have been a natural ex- 
pression, for there was nothing calculated to excite or 
annoy him in the bar-room. Two or three persons only 
were gathered about the bar, joking each other, while the 
judge himself was busy crushing lumps of sugar in one 
of the small tumblers of greenish glass, which gave a 
dingy hue to the brandy he had just poured out for one 
of his customers. Michael Hurst, for it was he, had just 
drawn back to his old position, when two men on horse- 
back came round a corner, and, as if rejoiced by the sight 
of company, urged their horses to a trot, and drawing up 
in a cheerful, dashing style, dismounted before the tavern. 

Hurst started, and dashed down his foot with a violence 
that drew the chair forward till the front feet rang against 
the floor. The light struck full upon his face ; it had all 
at once become white as a corpse, and his eyes glistened 
like those of a roused serpent. 

The two travellers had been busy tying their horses to 
the posts of the veranda, and before they were at leisure 
to notice any thing Hurst had fallen back to his old 
position. 

“ Does not that look like Hurst ?” said one of the men, 
as they came up the wooden steps tof ether. 

Daniel Hart cast a quick glance toward the seemingly 
half-sleeping ma^, knotted his huge fingers tightly 
together, and moved a step forward, but Mr. Bentley 
caught his arm. 

“ Remember your promise to Gillian 1” he said, in a 
low voice, but his own limbs trembled with rage as he 
restrained the vengeance of the stronger man. “ Re- 
member, we have both promised,” he added, drawing 
Hart toward the door, “but for that I have the best 
right. ” 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 387 


“ I have never broken my word !” muttered Daniel 
Hart, moving reluctantly on. “I never will, but it’s tough 
work to keep my hands off him.” 

And with these words Daniel Hart and his brother-in- 
law entered the public house, but the cheerfulness with 
which they had dismounted at the door was entirely dis- 
persed ; not even the hearty welcome which they received 
from the persons at the bar had power to restore them 
to moderate composure. 

“Why, who on earth is this, Daniel Hart ?” said the J udge 
laying down the sugar-stick and holding out his right 
hand, with which he shook his neighbor’s vigorously, 
while he passed the tumbler of brandy to a customer 
with the other. 

“ It seems an age since we’ve seen you at The Bend — 
and you too, Mr. Bentley. I was just calculating that 
your money would be so much clear gain in my hands, 
and had half dunned myself for the interest, when I get 
word that you are coming down to scrape it up, interest 
and all, for the land-office.” 

Bentley was about to reply, but the words died on his lips. 
In turning his eyes he had seen the white face of Michael 
^urst peering in St the window; the face disappeared 
instantaneously, but BeAtley felt as if those glittering eyes 
were still fixed upon his burning forehead. It was rage 
rather than terror that arose in his heart at the sight of 
those eyes, but to a less brave man there would have 
been something startling in their sharp and fiendish glar^ 
The evidences of emotion visible in Bentley’s face were 
mistaken for embarrassment by the good-natured Jud^e. 

“Well, well,” he said, “if you want the money, that’s 
enough ; put up with me to-night, and I’ll try to make it 
out in the morning.” 


388 THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 

“ Not here — I will not sleep under the same roof with 
that man,” said Daniel Hart, drawing Bentley aside, and 
speaking with great earnestness. 

“ I would rather go myself,” said Bentley, also in a low 
voice, “but it looks like a storm. If a hurricane comes 
up, we could never get through the woods alive.” 

“No matter, alive or dead, I will not stay at The Bend 
to-night,” replied Hart, with suppressed energy, but his 
words reached the persons around the bar, and they looked 
at each other, a little surprised at his obstinacy, and the 
stern, wilful tone in which his determination was expressed. 
It seemed to them as if harsh feeling existed between the 
two men. 

“ Yery well, I’m ready to start the moment our horses 
have been fed,” replied Bentley, moving toward the bar. 
“ I suppose an hour or two won’t make much difference 
with the Judge ?” 

“None at all,” replied the Judge, pointing to an old- 
fashioned chest of drawers in the corner ; “ the money is 
all ready in the old desk there. Go in and take a bite of 
supper while the horses are feeding. Come along, all of 
you.” 

The whole group put itself in motion and followed the 
J udge out into a back kitchen, where supper was laid in 
no very delicate style, but in rough and hospitable pro- 
fusion. 

Michael Hurst had been standing with his back to the 
railing of the veranda, his arms folded tightly over his 
chest, and watching with cat-like eagerness every thing 
that passed in the bar-room. The moment Judge Church 
went out, followed by the company, he glided softly down 
the steps, and across to the blacksmith’s shop. The smith 
was busy at his bellows, and the roar of the air escaping 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 889 

into the bed of glowing coals forced Hurst to draw close 
to the forge before he could make himself heard. When 
he felt the red light of the fire upon his face, he turned it 
away instinctively, or the honest smith might have been 
startled by its pallor and the fiendish expression lurking 
over it. A hostler coming round from the barn, with a 
measure of oats in his hand, saw him standing there envel- 
oped, as it might seem, in a crimson mantle by the flames, 
and wondered what traveller had entered the town with- 
out his knowledge ; for though Hurst had been for more 
than a fortnight boarding in the tavern, and was well known 
to the man, his face was so changed with the working of 
evil passions that it seemed like that of a stranger. 

“ Have you fastened the shoe said Hurst, hoarsely, 
touching the blackened arm of the smith with his finger, 
for he had spoken twice, yet could not hear the sound of 
his own voice. “ Have you fastened the shoe ?” 

“No,” said the blacksmith, leaning upon the pole of his 
bellows, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead 
with the coarse sleeve that was rolled above his elbow. 

Hurst uttered an imprecation. 

“ I haven’t fastened that shoe,” continued the smith, 
quite unmoved by the fierce words that had reached his 
ear, and resuming his hold on the bellows with one hand, 
while he raked the hot coals over a half-formed circle of 
iron glowing in the forge ; “ but I have put on a new one 
that fits like a lady’s slipper. That horse of yours has got 
a neat hoof, rather too delicate for common workmen ; I 
had to make undersized nails for fear of breaking it.” 

“Is he shod ? Have you done with him ?” exclaimed 
Hurst, sharply. 

“ Half an hour ago I” Taking up a huge pair of pin- 
cers with which he dragged forth a mass of iron from its 


3S^0 THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 

bed of fire, and seizing his hammer, the smith gave it one 
swing with his right arm, and it came crashing down upon 
the anvil with a force that sent a storm of fire-sparks over 
the young man, as he passed and untied his horse from the 
iron-ring at the door. 

Hurst led his horse across the street, and flung the bridle 
toward the man who was removing the bits from the tired 
animal from which Hart had just dismounted, while Mr. 
Bentley’s horse was quietly munching the oats which had 
been set before him. ^ ^ 

“ Here, take care of the creature, will you ?” he said, 
testily. “You need not stay to rub him down — he is half- 
starved.” 

The hostler caught the bridle with a dexterous move- 
ment of one arm, and quietly drawing the head-stall back 
to the neck of Hart’s horse, pushed the measure of oats 
toward him with his foot, and then moved away. 

“ Halloa, blockhead I where are you going ?” cried 
Hurst, with an oath. “ I don’t want him taken to the 
barn ; turn him into the white-clover lot, and see you put 
up the bars.” 

The man wheeled round sulkily, and grumbled below 
his breath. After crossing the road, he took down a set of 
bars, slipped off the bridle, and gave the spirited animal a 
light blow with it. This sent the horse bounding into a 
field, which was hedged in from the highway by a heavy 
rail-fence, and swept back from the tavern some ten or 
twelve acres of short but fragrant sward, where it was 
lost in a forest of heavy timber. The tavern itself stood 
in one corner of this field, and a cross-road bounded the 
opposite end, which ran up from the forest and intersected 
the turnpike some thirty rods below the house. 

Hurst stepped within the hall, but stood watching the 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 391 

man till he put up the bars and flung the bridle down in a 
corner of the veranda ; then he turned away and went into 
the supper-room. 

He took his seat at the lower end of the table, so noise- 
lessly that his entrance was unobserved, till Judge Church 
happened to look that way, and uttered an exclamation at 
his paleness. The rest of the company fastened their 
eyes, as with one accord, upon his face, the moment this 
exclamation escaped the host. A spot of living fire flashed 
into either check, and he clutched his knife and fork hard, 
as if angered by this general observation. 

“ I have the tooth-ache — have been racked to death 
with it all day,” he said, in a clear and low voice, strongly 
at variance with the expression of his face. 

‘‘ I will not sit at the same table with him,” muttered 
Daniel Hart, grasping Bentley by the arm. “ Come, let 
us .go !” 

They both arose ; but, as if overcome with pain, Hurst 
left his seat and went out. Obeying the impulse given 
by his companion, Hart sat down, again, and no one ob- 
served that they had intended to leave the table. 

When they went into the bar-room, after supper, Hurst 
was walking up and down the room. He seemed to be 
agitated, or in great pain, but there was only one small 
candle in the bar, and he kept in the shadow. 

Meantime, the Judge was busy counting out the money 
which Mr. Bentley had come to take up. It was much 
of it in pieces of gold, with several bank notes of small 
amount. After it had been counted over two or three 
times, the Judge emptied it into an old shot-bag — where 
it had been previously stored — tied it up with a piece of 
twine, and handed it to Bentley, taking his promissory 
note from that gentleman as he delivered the money. 


392 THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 

“ Come, now, we have nothing to keep us here I” ex- 
claimed Hart, drawing a deep breath, for the presence of 
Hurst seemed to oppress him. “ Where are the horses 
They, ought to be in the stable,” said the Judge, turn- 
ing a key in the sloping lid which closed a desk in his 
chest of drawers ; “ there is a storm coming up, or I am 
no judge of signs.” 

Hart had only heard the first part of this speech ; he 
was eager to leave the room, and hurrying out to the 
horses, forced the bits into their mouths, though scarcely 
half the oats had been consumed. 

“ Come, come, brother Bentley, come — we shall have 
to ride fast, or the storm may break on us in the woods !” 
he called out from the veranda. 

Mr. Bentley went out, followed by all the persons in 
the room, except Hurst. He stood motionless, near the 
window, listening to every word that passed, till the two 
men mounted and rode away. Then he stepped hastily 
to the bar, seized a decanter, and pouring out a tumbler 
half full of clear brandy, drank it off. 

“ Is your tooth no easier ?” said the good-hearted Judge, 
returning to the room just as the young man was taking 
his hand from the tumbler. 

“ No, it keeps getting worse ; I will go to bed and sleep 
it off — that is, if I can,” he replied, turning his face from 
the light, and pouring out a spoonful of brandy, which he 
held in his mouth as he went up-stairs. 

“ That’s a strange sort of a fellow,” said one of the 
guests, who had been a boatman on the Mississippi. How 
long has he been in these parts ?” 

“ Only a few weeks,” replied the Judge, to whom the 
question was addressed. 

does he follow for a living ?” persisted the guest. 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 893 

“ He’s got some business with the land office, I believe,” 
said the Judge, “ and wanders off with the hunters some- 
times when they take to the woods.” 

“ Just so,” said the guest. 

Hurst was not mentioned again that night ; but as if 
some association had been aroused, unconsciously, in the 
mind of the boatman, he began to talk about his wild life 
on the great river, and late in the evening was describing 
the fearful scenes which attended the hanging of the Yicks- 
burg gamblers. 

It was a terrible subject, and told at a fearful hour ; for 
the hurricane had burst upon them — strong, loud, and 
terrible. It came blowing up from the forest, and swept 
by, in its wrath, till the great half-empty house rocked 
like a cradle. The chimneys toppled over, and crashed 
upon the roof overhead. The verandas were torn away, 
like a handful of rushes, and yet that little group of men 
sat, awe-stricken and fascinated, listening to the rough 
eloquence of the boatman, as he described the storm of 
human passions which he had witnessed, amid the terrible, 
but still less awful storm of the elements that raged around 
them. 

Hurst went to his room and set down the light, reach- 
ing it far away with his hand, that it should not shine 
upon his face. He felt as if his thoughts were branded 
in crimson-writing on his forehead, and that some eye 
might read his purpose there. His conscience whispered 
falsely. That forehead was w'hite a^ marble, but shrunk 
and knitted together with dark passions. Foolish man 1 
Why did he thrust away that candle so fiercely ? The 
Almighty required no human light — no letters of blood 
upon the brow — to read that which was passing in his 
heart. 


894 THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 

He took a bowie-knife from his bosom, and felt the 
point — tried it against the seat of a chair till it seemed as 
if the well-tempered steel must have broken off in the 
wood. Then he drew a portmanteau from under the bed, 
and took out a hunting-frock, darker than the one he usu- 
ally wore, and without the yellow fringe. Having put 
this on, and supplied its place in the portmanteau with 
that which he had flung off, he drew the otter-skin cap 
over his forehead, and blowing out the light, crept from 
the room. He had nearly reached the stairs, when a 
thought seemed to strike him ; for he stole back, and, after 
searching in the dark, found the leather string suspended 
from the wooden latch in the door of his room. He tied 
a knot in the end, which he tightened with his teeth, and 
drew it back so far into the gimlet hole which perforated 
the door, that any one anxious^o enter would have sup- 
posed the thong drawn through by some person within. 
He listened a moment by the door, and then glided, with 
quick and noiseless* steps, down the stairs. 

There was no light in the hall ; but the ceilings were 
yet unplastered, and a network of faint rays fell through 
a thousand crevices of the new lath, which was the only 
partition between him and the bar-room. The bar-room 
door was partly open, and directly before it sat a group 
of travellers, listening to the exploits of the boatman. 
This man checked his speech an instant, and looked up as 
Hurst darted by, but the movement was quick as the 
flight of an arrow, and, satisfied that it was but a shadow 
made by the flaring candle, the man went on, warming in 
his description as the storm rose 

Once out of the house, Hurst crept in a stooping posture 
around the veranda, thrust his arm through the railing, 
and softly drawing forth the bridle that had been cast 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 395 

there, followed the windings of the fence till he came to 
the cross-road. He turned the corner with a bound, and, 
drawing one sharp breath, ran swiftly down towards the 
wood. Here he turned again, followed the line of brush 
• fence that separated the forest from the clover-fields, and, 
keeping himself in the wood, looked around for his horse. 
The animal was grazing near the centre of the field. A 
low, sweet whistle made him pause just as a tuft of 
fragrant and dewy clover was folded in his lip — again ^ 
that whistle came from the wood, still faintly, but a little 
sharper than before. Without staying to crop the hand- 
ful of blossoms which were even then filling his mouth 
with fragrance, the animal gave a start, flung up his head, 
and sprang away. With a single bound he cleared the 
fence, and stood by the side of his master. 

Hurst took a heavy silk handkerchief from his pocket, 
tied two of the corners together with a piece of cord, and 
slipped it over the horse’s head, where he arranged it with 
the cord knotted across the chest, and the square of crim- 
son silk spread out upon the animal’s back like a saddle- 
cloth.^ 

“ No saddle, no blanket to-night, old boy,” he muttered, 
hoarsely, while the horse bent his head for the bit. He 
put on the bridle, drawing the throat-latch so fiercely that 
the tormented creature shook his head and ran back. 

! Hurst clenched his hand, opened it again as suddenly 
I and patted the restive creature on the arching neck. 

“ So — so,” he muttered, loosening the strap, which cut 
j cruelly against the poor animal’s throat. “No noise — no 

I ' prancing here. So — so, be quiet, boy, take care of the 
brush, and you shall be coaxed like a girl, for once — 
so — so. ” 

I With these words, uttered scarcely above his breath, 


396 THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 


though the mustering storm would have drowned his 
loudest tones, Hurst sprang upon his horse, and, guiding 
him cautiously through a comer of the wood, came out 
into the cross-road, about half a mile from the town. 

“How for it I” burst from his lips in a whisper, which 
seemed like a shout suppressed with difficulty. “ Now 
for it I” 

There had been a moon that evening, but the coming 
storm overwhelmed and shrouded it from sight. Still, a 
pearly glow now and then shot along the small and 
gloomy clouds that came surging up from the north, and 
spread themselves over the sky like a lead-colored pave- 
ment, torn and agitated by unseen hands. But soon even 
the pearly gleam disappeared. It had lingered among 
the clouds, the last smile on the face of heaven ; now it 
was swept away, and left nothing but blackness and 
gloom behind. The air seemed pressing down to the 
earth, thick, stagnant and sultry. A dismal sound came 
up from the forest, as if the elements were chained among 
those giant trees, moaning at their captivity and wrathful 
with each other. Still, amid darkness and gloom, that 
horseman sped on. The road was narrow, and full of 
ruts. Stumps, in some places, stood half crumbling away 
in the very wagon-track ; but, with a loosened rein and 
knees pressed hard to his fleet animal, that doomed man 
plunged onward to his fate. The thunder, which had 
been all the time muttering on high, now pealed and 
crashed above him — the lightning came down in sheets of 
lurid fire, shedding a bluish tinge over the corpse-like hue 
of his face. Still his horse plunged on amid sheets of 
flame or black darkness, never checking his speed for an 
instant. 

All at once that desperate rider drew the curb with a 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 397 

sharp pull, which brought the horse’s foaming mouth 
down upon his chest. He staggered, fell back upon his 
haunches, and recovered himself with a snort of pain. 
All the time, the rider was bending forward till his face 
almost touched the arched neck of his beast, his knees 
were pressed convulsively to the drooping sides of the 
stumbling animal, and he strove again to catch the sound 
of hoofs which had for an instant reached him through 
the storm. 

€ 

“ On, on !” The words came hissing through his shut 
teeth, but scarcely had the gallant horse made a bound 
forward when the curb was fiercely drawn again. 

“ It is somewhere close by. Oh, if the lightning would 
but strike again !” 

It did strike, with a crash that made the brave horse 
, leap in the air, though he had never shrunk from the 
: lightning before. Not three rods before them a dry tree 
I was shivered in ten thousand pieces, and every splinter 
I shot forth a stream of fire. For one moment the horse- 
i man recoiled, the next he recognized the spot. 

“ Thank God, there it is !” he exclaimed aloud, and 
f with this blasphemous thanksgiving on his parted lips, he 
} struck the horse and dashed into a cart-path, revealed by 
I the stricken tree. On, without swerving from the path 
! an instant, he passed directly under the burning tree, 

I and was engulfed in the dark woods beyond. 

I Daniel Hart and his companion had ridden hard, in 
hopes of making their way through the woods before the 
storm came on, but there was full six miles of forest, cut 
only by the narrow and broken road, through which night 
travellers passed with some danger even in the best 
weather. But they had scarcely cleared a third of their 
way when the rain began to fall in great heavy drops, and 


S98 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 


the storm mustered around them with terrible force, 
The heavy farm-horses which they rode stumbled in the 
deep ruts, and became almost unmanageable as the thunder 
came crashing peal after peal overheard, and the woods 
around seemed a-fire with lightning. Still the riders 
urged them forward, for the peril seemed equal if they 
returned or pursued their way home. 

“ Great heavens ! did you see that ?” exclaimed Bent- 
ley, reining in his horse with a firm hand, and pointing in 
the direction whence they had come. 

“ I thought it had struck somewhere,’^ replied Hart, 
checking his horse for a moment and looking back. “ Ha ! 
it is the old tree at the cross-roads. How the flames 
shoot up I it was dry as tihder. Thank Heaven, while it 
burns we shall have light enough to keep our horses from 
breaking their knees in the confounded mud-holes.” 

“ Hear that 1” exclaimed Bentley, and his face changed 
in the red light. 

“ Heavens and earth ! it is upon us — what shall we 
do ?” cried Hart, wheeling his horse suddenly, and the 
light from the burning tree revealed his face also white 
with terror as he rode back a few paces, and drew up 
again, agitated and irresolute. . 

“ We may as well go forward ; there is nothing to | 
choose. It will be upon us long before we can clear the 
wood either way,” shouted Bentley, looking back. 

“ Lord preserve us ! it will be an awful gust, and the 
girls alone 1” 

Hart spoke loud and joined Bentley as he uttered these 
words, but the noise of the elements would have over- 
whelmed a band of trumpets, and no one heard him. 
Terrified into almost supernatural exertion, the two horses 
plunged on, stumbling, leaping, and sometimes staggering 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 899 

through the storm like drunken creatures. The riders 
spoke to each other again and again, shouted even, but 
the rushing wind swept away their voices, and but for 
the quick flashes of lightning which every instant re- 
vealed their pallid faces each to the other, they could not 
have kept together. 

Still the terrific storm was not upon them in its full 
might. The thunder boomed and crashed overhead, the 
giant trees were laced together through and through with 
fiery lightning, the wind was strong and high ; but far 
down in the forest came a still more terrible sound. The 
whirlwind was coming up from the dark north, heaving 
onward with a fierce, rushing roar, and crashing down the 
majestic forest in its path — on and on it came, like a mighty 
ocean heaving loose from its foundations. Now it was 
upon them I The two horses stood still, quaking with 
terror, their riders cast themselves forward upon the 
shivering beasts, clung to their dripping necks, and they 
too were motionless. 

On it came, gathering new strength and terror. The 
hoarse winds, the thunder, and the noise of giant trees 
uprooted like reeds and dashed to the earth, mingled to- 
gether and deafened the very heavens. 

The air was black with clouds of mangled foliage — 
great limbs of trees, masses of loose leaves, vines twisted 
asunder and saplings torn up by the roots, went rush- 
ing by. The wind now scattered them abroad — now 
drove them together in masses. The lightning shot its 
fiery tongues through and through them, and the rain 
mingled with it all, not with the soft lulling sweetness 
of water-drops that descend gently from the clouds, but 
blent with all the turbulent elements that made the night 
horrible. 


400 THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 


Still the horses crouched their limbs together and buried 
their hoofs deep in the earth, and the riders clung to them 
awe-stricken and breathless — all at once the ground began 
to heave under them. The earth was torn up all around 

a great oak, whose -roots were tangled under the soil 

far across the road, fell crashing close behind them. The 
maddened horses leaped forward — the outer branches of 
the fallen tree almost brushed the riders from their seats, 
and the huge trunk fell across the road just where they had 
been an instant before. The horse which Daniel Hart 
rode cleared the tree first, and was plunging on in the 
darkness, when a sharp cry reached his ear, even through 
the storm. Hart grasped the bridle with both his strong 
hands, and, putting forth all his strength, wheeled his 
horse round, for Bentley was still behind. A flash of 
lightning revealed the horse without a rider ; Bentley was 
upon the ground — a black mass, that might be a heavy 
limb of the fallen tree, or a human being stooping over 
it, was betrayed for an instant, and all was dark again. 

“ Bentley, are you hurt ? — answer me, answer if you 
are not killed,” shouted the farmer, hoarse with terror. 

He listened — no sound — nothing but the fierce storm. 

“ Speak I do speak I I dare not ride on, the horse 
might tread you to death in the dark. Are you calling 
out ? — the storm is so loud I might not hear if you did — 
try, try, the least shout will tell me where you are I” 

Another flash of lightning revealed Bentley’s horse, and, 
with a shout of joy. Hart saw the figure of a man rise 
from the earth and spring upon his back. The next 
instant all was darkness agaiti ; but Hart felt the horse 
of his companion pressing close to his, and the two ani- 
mals urged their way, breast to breast, through the ; 
abating storm. I 




THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 401 

Were you hurt ?” shouted Hart, anxiously, feeling in 
the dark for his companion’s hand, which hung motionless 
and dripping wet by his side. 

“ No, no, a limb swept me from the saddle, that is all I” 
Thank God it was no worse I” exclaimed Hart, in a 
voice which bespoke the hearty gratitude which he felt, 
and, wringing the damp hand which he had seized, the 
good man uttered another fervent “thank God !” , 

That instant a glare of lightning passed over them. 
Hart saw the face of his companion, and his warm 
fingers tightened on the hand they had unlocked. 

“ How white — how strange you look !” he said, power- 
fully agitated. “ Brother, own it, you are hurt. I hardly 
know you with that face I” 

The hand which Daniel held was wrung harshly from 
his grasp, and the reply which reached him, like all that 
had gone before, was broken and half-drowned by the 
storm. 

“ No, no, it is only the lightning. My horse is lamed, 
though. You must break the way for us.” 

As these words were uttered, the speaker fell back and 
rode behind Hart till a light gleamed from a little window 
in the distance, like a star braving the storm to guide the 
wanderers, home. 

“ There, there the girls are up and waiting for us,” cried 
the glad father ; and urging their horses on, the travellers 
dismounted at the cabin-door. 

“ The horses have had a tough time of it,” said Hart, 
shaking the water from his garments ; “ they must be fed 
first. ” 

“ I will take care of them — go in, go in,” exclaimed his 
companion, holding forth the bag of money ; “ put this 
away — I will come back in a minute.” 

25 


402 THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 

Daniel took the money in one hand and pulled the latch- 
string with the other ; his companion turned abruptly 
when the light fell on him through the door, and led the 
horses away without answering Hart, who shouted after 
him to hurry back, for the girls were waiting with supper 
on the table. 

Sure enough, supper was on the table : a cake of rich 
corn-bread warm from the fire, a young chicken nicely 
broiled, and a saucer of golden butter just from the churn, 
stood temptingly ready on the snow-white table-cloth. 
There was pretty Martha — her cheeks all rosy with the 
heat — pouring a stream of sparkling hot water from the 
clumsy kettle into a little britannia tea-pot, bright as sil- 
ver, which had been standing on the hearth at least two 
hours, with the lid temptingly thrown back, and ready at 
any moment to receive the water, that kept singing away 
in the kettle. Gillian was sitting by Matty, rather anxious, 
for the storm had terrified her ; and crouching in a corner 
were black Dinah and Liz, each with an apron flung over 
her face, frightened half to death by the thunder-bursts 
that had shaken the cabin to its foundations. 

“ So you have come — I thought it was you,” exclaimed 
Martha, closing the lid of the tea-pot, and going up to her 
father, her sweet face sparkling with gratified joy. She 
flung her arms around the old man’s neck and kissed his 
wet cheek. 

“ Have you been much frightened, darling ?” said the 
old man, tenderly taking her hand in his. 

“ Oh, yes, very much, till I heard you coming. We 
were so afraid that you w6uld get hurt in the woods. I 
have been crying here half the evening, yet it seemed 
as if all would turn out well, and so it has : here*you are, 
but Uncle Bentley, he did not let you come back alone ?” 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 403 

“ Oh, no — he is turning out the horses ; but a tree was 
struck close by us, and he got a fall — nothing to speak of, 
though,” added the kind man, observing that the cheek of 
his niece turned pale. 

“ You are sure no one is hurt ?” said Gillian, coming up 
and winding her fingers around the huge hand, which 
clasped them kindly. 

“Yes, yes, but what is the matter — what ails your 
hand ? You are not afraid of a little water, are you ?” 

Gillian turned to the light and looked earnestly at the 
fingers her uncle had been clasping ; they were crimson 
with blood. 

“ Father, father, you are hurt, and will not tell me,” 
Martha exclaimed, pointing to Gillian’s hand. “ Oh, 
father, how could you deny it ? See, your sleeve is spot- 
ted — your hand is wet with it ; tell me, tell me, where are 
you hurt ?” 

“ Hurt !” exclaimed Hart, going close to the light, where 
he examined the sleeve of his linen coat and his crimson 
hand in a state of painful bewilderment ; “ hurt ! no, I am 
not hurt ; but where did this come from ?” 

His ruddy cheek became a shade paler, as he shook the 
drops from his fingers — for there was water as well as 
blood upon his hand — and an expression of doubt and 
anxiety stole over his face. 

“It must be your father’s, Gillian,” he muttered at 
length, stealing a glance through the door, as if anxious 
for the appearance of his friend. “ His arm may be cut ; 
ah, I remember, that made him fling off my hand so sav- 
agely ; well, it may not be much after all !” 

Gillian stood watching her uncle, as he muttered these 
words in a voice so subdued that it scarcely reached her 


ear. 


404 THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 

“ Uncle,” she said at length, laying her hand on his arm, 
tell me, tell me all I where is my father ?” 

“ Out there with the horses, I tell you,” replied Hart, 
shaking off the strange feelings produced by the blood 
upon his hand, and speaking out with his usual frankness. 
“ There, put away the money in my chest — I had forgot- 
ten \it.” 

Setting the bag of money on a corner of the table. Hart 
began to examine his garments over again, muttering to 
himself with seeming wonder at the state they were in. 

Martha took up the bag with a shudder, for the canvas 
had a red stain upon it ; she placed it in the chest pointed 
out by her father, and gave him the key with a forced 
smile, which looked ghastly on lips so pallid as hers had 
become. 

“ Come now, bustle about and get some dry clothes 
ready against your uncle comes in ; he is dripping wet, I 
can tell you,” said Hart, with renewed cheerfulness ; “ but 
first bring me a basin of water to wash my hands. Where 
on earth can this have come from ?” he muttered, while 
laving his h^ds in the basin, and once'more his face took 
an anxious expression. 

Martha had already prepared dry garments both for her 
father and uncle. Hart went into his own little bedroom 
and came out dry and comfortable. Still Mr. Bentley did 
not appear. Martha seated herself at the table, broke the 
corn-bread, and poured out a cup of tea. Her father took 
the cup, set it down un tasted, and, leaning his elbows on 
the table, waited for his companion to come in. At last 
he started up and went to the door ; a horse was standing 
near, with a saddle on and his bridle dragging along the 
wet grass. It was his own horse. The old man started 
out into the rain, caught the horse and led him toward the 


THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 


405 


stable, where he expected to find Bentley. All was still 
in the log-stable — the door was open, but no living thing 
stirred within. Hart shouted aloud, again and again ; he 
went into the house for a lantern, and searched' every- 
where for his friend ; Gillian and Martha followed him in 
silence, the tears rolling down their pale faces, oppressed 
with anxiety such as had never filled their hearts before. 
It was all in vain ; no voice answered the anxious shout 
of Daniel Hart. Once he heard something like the quick 
tramp of a horse down in the w'oods ; the sound lasted 
but an instant, and he, followed by the young girls, went 
into the house, filled with trouble and consternation. 

The whirlwind went by ; the rain ceased, and the wind 
died moaning among the torn foliage ; the moon came 
out in the firmament once more, smiling, like the eye of 
an unconscious infant, over the wild scene below. It 
looked calmly upon the earth, torn and ragged, and har- 
rowed up as it had been with the storm — on the shattered 
trees — the herbage broken and soiled, and heaped together 
in ridges on the places it had beautified when the sun 
went down. Like a Christian soul, eager to Hing a mantle 
of charity over the ruin which sin had made, that peace- 
ful moon wove a vail of misty silver amid the devastation 
which, but for it, would hav6 been dreary indeed. 

But there was one object lying in the cart-road deep in 
the forest, which the pure moonbeams but rendered more 
horrible. It was a human form, flung like a slaughtered 
imimal across the trunk of the oak which Hart had seen 
uprooted but an hour before. The lax limbs were en- 
tangled in a bough which was broken, bent and crushed 
by their weight; the face was turned upward, white, 
cold and ghastly ’, among a mass of leaves, matted together 


406 THE BODY IN THE WOODS. 


by the dark stream which trickled heavily down from the 
body upon them. 

There were none of those pleasant sounds of dropping 
water which would have followed a common storm in the 
forest, for the winds had swept the rain away as it fell, 
and a hush like that of death was all around. But that 
small current of blood, welling slowly down over the 
drenched garments, which hung around the body, through 
the crushed leaves to the earth, drop by drop, fell upon 
the sweet air with sluggish and horrid monotony. Still 
the moonbeams smiled upon the scene as they had smiled 
upon the blossoming turf the night before. 

The smothered hoof-fall of a horse, smiting his way 
through the mud, gave another sluggish sound to the still 
night. It grew slower and more laborious as the jaded 
horse drew near, and stopped altogether some paces from 
the uprooted oak. A man, whose thin face looked sharp 
and haggard in the moonbeams, dismounted and struck a 
fierce, unsteady blow, with a stick he gathered up from 
the wayside, which sent the poor animal tearing down 
the road. The branches of that fallen oak crashed under 
him as he rushed through it. The body slid downward a 
little, and the horse plunged, with clinking stirrups and 
loose bridle, deep into the forest. When this sound had 
entirely died away, the horseman crept toward the oak 
softly, as if afraid of arousing the body to life. He looked 
neither to the right nor left, but moved on, with his face 
toward the body, though his glittering eyes were fixed on 
the dark trees beyond, not on the gloomy object itself. 

The man stooped down as he drew near the tree, crouched 
lower and lower till his knees sunk in the ground, and 
groped about in the mud and herbage, as if in search of 
something. His hand touched the blade of a knife, 


THE DESERTED CABIN. 


407 


half-buried in the earth ; he grasped it by the point, 
sprung to his feet with a sharp breath, and holding it 
before him, clenched eagerly with both hands, laughed a 
horrible choking laugh as the blade shook in the moon- 
light. 

“ You will bear no evidence against me now, old 
friend,” he said, in a voice that fell upon the air so 
strange and hoarse that he started and looked over his 
shoulder, as if another man had spoken his thoughts. 
All was still, but the murderer had been frightened by his 
own voice, and slunk away with his face still turned back 
toward the body, though he had never once looked 
upon it. 

Another horse was tied in a hollow, scarcely twenty paces 
down from the road. Through all the hurricane, and with 
the lightning firing his eyes, he stood without wincing ; 
but now that he saw his master coming heavily toward 
him, he began to paw the mud with his hoof, and gave a 
faint neigh. The man parted his lips, and tried to' check 
this manifestation of joy, but his words died in his husky 
throat, and mounting with difficulty, he rode away, faint 
and wavering to and fro on his seat. 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE DESERTED CABIN. 

Three weeks after the events related in our last chap- 
ter, a horseman ^de slowly through the clearing before 
Daniel Hart’s cabin and dismounted beneath the huge 


408 


THE DESEETED CABIN. 


chestnut, which was yet standing with its trunk cut 
through to the heart, and all the foliage on the upper 
branches hanging withered and drooping in the morning 
sunshine. As the man passed from under the tree his 
foot struck something upon the ground. It was Daniel 
Hart’s axe, rusted and wet with dew, which had been 
lying upon the same spot till the grass and strawberry 
vines had crept over and tangled themselves around it so 
completely, that, but for his accidental stumble, it might 
not have been discovered. The man lifted the axe, ex- 
amined it closely, and muttering — 

“ There is nothing here but rust — downright honest 
rust” — rested the implement against the tree, and moved 
across the clearing. 

Daniel Hart’s cabin stood desolate and uninhabited, like 
a forsaken bird’s-nest, in the midst of its little vegetable 
garden — no wreath of smoke went curling up from the 
stick-chimney in the quiet morning air, and, though it was 
near the breakfast hour, no snowy napkin streaming from 
the window proclaimed the waiting meal. The door was 
unlocked, and our horseman had but to touch it with his 
foot to gain entrance into the dwelling. 

How lonesome and neglected it was ! A few ashes lay 
upon the hearth, caked together with the water that had 
rained down the open-mouthed chimney. A bed stood in 
one corner, made up neatly, and covered with a pretty 
patch-work quilt ; but the pillows were spotted with mil- 
dew, and the same damp mould had eaten its way in many 
a broad patch over the glowing colors of the quilt. The 
back window, close by, was open, and a mass of morning- 
glory vines, entangled with scarlet runners in full flower, 
had forced their way through and crept along the wall. 
They had twisted themselves around one of the bed-posts, 


THE DESERTED CABIN. 


409 


and were creeping over the head-board, where they hung 
in a light and graceful wreath, rendering the decay and 
stillness around yet more melancholy by contrast. 

The man who gazed upon this scene was a backwoods 
constable, rough and uncultivated ; but even he was af- 
fected by this picture of home-comforts so completely 
abandoned. He had come to search the house, but moved 
about with a soft tread, and unlocked the cupboards and 
that large chest with a bunch of keys which he took from 
his pocket stealthily, as if his heart would not permit him 
to handle with a rude hand the household gods of another 
man. He started up from his knees by the chest, and 
dropped the garment he was examining, like a guilty one, 
when a noise at the window disturbed him. It was only 
the house cat, gaunt and thin with hunger, which had just 
come in from the woods, and stood staring at him from the 
window-sill, with a flying-squirrel in her jaws. The poor 
animal had attained a fierce and savage look, from soli- 
tude and the wild raids she had been compelled to. make 
for food ; but she dropped her prey and crept toward the 
man, purring mournfully, and rubbing herself against his 
thick boots. 

“ Poor puss, poor puss,” murmured the man, stooping 
down to smooth her rough coat with his hand. 

But, as if she had not seen that he was a stranger be- 
fore, the cat snapped angrily at his hand, and darted away 
to the squirrel, which she seized in her mouth and carried 
under the bed, where she remained, growling fiercely, arid 
peering at the stranger, from under the valance, with her 
round, savage eyes, as she devoured her victim. 

After he had examined every thing in the rooms below, 
the man went up a ladder which led to the garret, where 
he continued his search among the barrels and bunches of 


410 


THE DESERTED CABIN. 


dried herbs which it contained, but evidently to no effect, 
for he came down the ladder, muttering, 

“ There’s nothing here — nothing on ’arth that can tell 
ag’in him, and I’m as glad of it as if I’d caught a bc*ii] in 
a coon-trap. Consarn me if I can believe the old chap's 
guilty arter all.” 

With these words the constable^went out, closing the 
door carefully after him, and mounting his horse, made 
the best of his way to The Bend. 

Judge Church was walking up and down the veranda, 
in front of his tavern, when the constable rode up. 

“ Well, neighbor, well !” exclaimed the kind-hearted 
man, “ what news ? — how have you made out ?” 

“ Just as I expected. There’s nothing in the cabin but 
the fixin’s that belong there, and they’re nigh upon sp’iled; 
for my part, I never could see the use of going out there 
ag’in.” 

“ Never mind, Johnson, never mind ; that flinty lawyer 
would insist on it, and you know it won’t do for me to in- 
terfere. They mistrust me, ! can see that; but they 
needn’t — they needn’t ! I always liked Hart. It goes 
ag’in my feelings to believe him guilty ; but if they prove it 
— if he has killed that noble fellow and then robbed him, I 
shall do my duty, Johnson. I must do my duty I” 

“And I must do mine, too,” replied the constable ; and 
he added, bending down nearer to the Judge : “but it will 
be a tough job to tie the halter round that old man’s neck ; 
between you and I, Judge, when you have done your part 
of the business, and my turn comes, there may be a log 
missing from the old jail there !” 

A bright gleam shot to the Judge’s eye, but he shook 
his head reprovingly. 

“No, no Johnson that will never do ; law is law; but 


THE DESERTED CABIN. 


411 


hush, hush — don’t think of any thing of the kind yet. We 
must do our duty — the laws must be maintained, Mr. 
Johnson !” 

The Judge spoke these last words in a raised voice, and 
accompanied with a warning look, which the constable 
understood ; for just then Michael Hurst came sauntering 
round a corner of the house, and slowly approached them. 
The appearance of this man had been much changed since 
the night of the storm ; his features had become sharp and 
thin ; a restless, anxious expression would constantly 
break over them, notwithstanding the listless air which he 
always assumed. His figure had shrunk away till the 
hunting-frock, which he always wore, hung loosely over 
it. All this gave a neglected look to his whole person, 
combined, as it was, with unusual disorder in the remain- 
der of his dress. 

“ Halloa, Hurst I” said the constable, glancing at the 
young man’s dress, which was even more roughly put on 
than it had been the day before, and resting his eyes at 
last on the clumsy boots, which gave a still more slovenly 
air to his person, “you are so much like one of us that 1 
• did not know you at first. Glad to see you taking to the 
brush like a man, at last. There was no living sociable 
with a chap who carried a white handkerchief week-days, 
and had his calf-skin boots blacked every morning. I 
tell you what, it makes us plain homespun fellows mis- 
trustful. ” 

Hurst approached them with the heavy, restless air of 
a man who had known but little sleep for many nights ; 
but wheiD Johnson uttered the last word he lifted his eyes, 
which seemed almost black from the dark shadows around 
them, and cast a keen glance from the constable to the 
Judge. 


412 


THE DESERTED CABI2^. 


“Mistrustful,” he said, with a forced smile, “mistrust- 
ful of me ?” 

“Not now, that you dress like a man, and have given 
up pinching your feet out of all shape,” replied the 
constable. “But what have you done with the rights- 
aud-lefts ? Give them to old Brown ; let him hang them 
up at his door for a sign. Come, bring the things out, 
and I’ll leave them as I go along I” 

“ You would only get one of them, at best,” said Hurst, 
with an unnatural laugh. “ The hostler got tired of black- 
ing them, I suppose, though I paid him well enough for 
the trouble.” 

“So he rubbed them with tallow, and spoiled the 
polish,” cried the constable, laughing. 

“ No ; worse than that. He lost one boot altogether. 
So 1 was obliged to patronize old Brown,” replied Hurst, 
with affected carelessness, 

“ A cunning fellow, that hostler of yours,” said John- 
son, nodding to the Judge, and taking up his bridle. 

“ I say, Hurst,” he added, turning again to the young 
man, “you wanted an order to see Daniel Hart, one day 
last week ; I am going down to the jail now, you can 
walk along, and I will let you in.” 

Hurst hesitated a moment. “ Are his daughter and 
niece there now ?” he inquired. 

“ Oh yes, poor gals, they never leave the old man.” 

“Well, wait a moment, and I will go with you,” re- 
plied Hurst, turning to mount the tavern steps. 

“ Is he acquainted with Hart?” inquired the Judge, ad- 
dressing Johnson the moment Hurst was out of hearing. 

“ Not that I know of,” was the reply, “ but he is hand- 
and-glove with the prosecuting attorney, and it would not 
answer to refuse him.” 


THE DESERTED CABIN. 


413 


“Just so,’^ said the eTudge, rather anxiously, “but give 
the prisoner a hint before he goes in ; the fellow is silky 
as an ear of green corn, but I don’t like him. He may be 
put up to this by the attorney, and so take advantage of 
anj^ thing he can get' out of poor Hart. Put the old man 
on his guard — you understand I” 

“ Yes, yes ; I will see to it,” replied Johnson hastily. 
“ Come to think now, I may as well ride on and leave 
orders for the jailer to let him in. If we go together there 
will be no chance to caution the old man.” 

“Ride on, then,” .replied the Judge, “I will tell him 
how it is !” and, with a friendly shake of the hand, the 
Judge and the constable separated. 

After a little time Hurst descended from the room, 
where he had been arranging his dress, and walked 
hurriedly down the road toward the county jail, which 
stood on the outskirts of the town. . 

The county jail was built of logs, and erected after the 
usual fashion of such buildings, but the windows were 
heavily grated, and the huge logs were bolted together 
with iron bars, which formed a massive wall scarcely less 
vulnerable than granite itself The doors, too, were 
knobbed with great spike nails, and bolted with massive 
bars, just as they came from the forge. Altogether, 
though rudely built, the jail was not only strong but well 
guarded, and it must have been a desperate man indeed 
who could hope for escape when once immured within its 
rugged walls. 

But the stout farmer, who was the only important 
prisoner in the building, had little thought of escape. If 
the massive logs could have crumbled to dust at his feet, 
Daniel Hart would not have fled one step from the cap- 
tivity in which his friends and neighbors had placed him. 


414 


THE DESERTED CABIN. 


Still imprisonment was a weary trial to an old man who 
bad been all his life an active tiller of the soil — a healthy, 
enterprising, cheerful farmer. He felt restive, and some- 
times almost sullen, cooped up^ — as he expressed it — like 
a barn-door fowl, with its wings clipped ; sometimes he 
gave way to fits of childlike melancholy, for — innocent or 
guilty of his brother-in-law’s death — the old man could 
not but feel the event deeply ; the more so as Bentley’s 
noble and suffering daughter was always near, to remind 
him, by her sad and mournful attempts at cheerfulness, 
how terribly she felt the event which had rendered her 
young heart desolate. 

Sometimes Daniel Hart would give way to fits of sturdy 
indignation against those who had placed him in confine- 
ment. Again he would admit, with simple-hearted can- 
dor, that appearances were strong against him, and he 
could not blame those who, on evidence so conclusive, 
had dragged him from his quiet home, and shut him up, 
to undergo a disgraceful trial for the murder of a man 
whom he had loved as a brother. 

“ I would not have cared,” said Daniel to his daughter, 
on the morning after Constable Johnson had been at the 
jail to warn him of Hurst’s visit, “ I would not have cared 
a bean-stalk about being shut up here, if I didn’t have to 
see every scoundrel that chooses to come in and ask me 
impudent questions. It’s bad enough to know that your 

poor uncle is gone — don’t turn pale, don’t cry so, Gillian 

you did not think it was me, if I did bring home the 
money with red hands I I know my own daughter will 
never believe it I” 

“No, no, my father ! my dear, good father I never think 
it again,” exclaimed Martha, winding her arms around the 
stout old man and kissing his brown cheek, while she 


t- 


THE DE3EKTED CABI^. 


415 


tronibled and wept with agitation. ‘‘But he is dead — 
dead and gone — and, oh father, how she did love him 

“ I know it, gal, I know it well enough,” said the 
prisoner, taking the pale-head of his niece between both 
his great hands and kissing her forehead, while his stout 
form trembled, and tears ran down his cheeks. “ I know 
you loved him ; he was as good a father as ever lived ; 
but if he is in heaven, Gillian — and why not ? he was 
good enough to go there, though he wasn’t a member in 
any church — if he can only look down from heaven now, 
he knows that I didn’t do it. I ! Gillian, I loved him 
a’most as well as you did !” 

Daniel Hart sunk down on a bench, that ran across his 
prison-room, and covering his face with both hands, 
sobbed aloud, though he was ashamed of his tears, and 
struggled hard against them. Gillian crept to his side, 
and bending her fair head upon his breast, tried to com- 
fort him. 

“ I didn’t do it, Gillian — the God of heaven knows I 
didn’t. I’m growing thin. I look down-hearted some- 
times, I know that; but it isn’t a guilty conscience. 
They may hang me to-morrow, if they like, but I’ll cry 
out ‘ not guilty’ with my last breath. They shan’t point 
you out, Martha, arter I’m gone, and say, ‘ There goes the 
gal whose father owned that he had killed bis own 
brother, just as they swung him off.’. They shan’t, I say 
— they never shall do that, Martha !” 

And pressing the poor weeping girls to his broad bosom 
with both his arms, Daniel Hart swayed to and fro on his 
seat, protesting that he was innocent, and striving to 
soothe their grief. But when Martha, who lingered there 
last, moved on his bosom, and tried to murmur words of 


^16 THE' DESERTED CABIN. 

coivdenoe and hope through her tears, he burst forth 
again. 

“ Never mind, gal, never mind. They may do it if they 
like — my own neighbors, too — let them hang me, let 
them I I will take you with me. We will go together ; 
for it would kill you to see them strangling your father 
like a dog — wouldn’t it, child ? That will be best ; and 
we can be buried all in one spot, down in the woods. 
Don’t take on so — don’t take on, Martha — we shall find 
them in another world ! Poor Bentley, Sarah and your 
mother too. But you must go with me, Martha, for the 
first thing that she will ask for will be the little gal she 
left behind for me to take care of, and I shan’t dare to 
tell her that I’ve left you all alone in a w^rld where an 
honest fellow can be hung for nothing, by his own 
neighbors !” 

“Yes, father, we will go together. Neither of us have 
any thing to live for, now,” said Martha Hart, rising from 
her father’s arms far enough to wind her own around his 
neck, and laying her pale, wet cheek feebly down on his 
shoulder. “ I am glad, father, that you want me to go 
with you. The world would be so lonesome — after that. ” 

Daniel Hart laid his cheek down to the pale fac§ upon his 
shoulder, and began rocking her in his arms again, wifEout 
any other reply ; for this rush of passionate feeling had 
exhausted even his great strength. By degrees they all 
became more calm, but Daniel was still holding the 
strengthless girl in his arms, and Gillian sat with 
dreary face in a corner of the room, when the prison-door 
opened, and Michael Hurst entered. 

Daniel Hart sprung to his feet, set Martha down, and 
dashing the tears from his face with an impetuous motion 
of the hand, walked quickly to the further end of his 


THE DESERTED CABIN. 417 

dungeon, where he turned, like a stag at bay, and 
waited in stern silence for his visitor to speak. 

Almost for the first time in his life Hurst was at a 
loss for words ; he turned pale, and then the color burned 
hotly up to his forehead, but shaking off the fascination 
which the prisoner’s eye seemed to fix upon him, he 
moved gently to the bench where Gillian was sitting, and 
placed himself near her. Hart took a step forward, but 
before he could do more, his niece had left her seat and 
stood by his side, pale and still trembling, but with the 
tears quenched in her eyes. 

“ Well, sir, what do you want here ? This roof belongs 
to the State. If I were a free man, it could not cover us 
both half a minute longer.” 

“ I have come as a friend ; pray hear me with patience,” 
said Hurst, rising and moving toward the prisoner. 

Hart flung one powerful arm around his niece, and 
motioned Hurst back with the other. 

“ Stay where you are, Mike Hurst ; I care nothing 
about what place you stand in, but my niece, here, trem- 
bj^s as -jif a rattlesnake were crawling this way ; keep 
where you stand, I can hear you well enough.” 

“ Why '^o you treat me in this way ?” said Hurst, 
sdbthin^ly. '‘You may believe it or not, but I only came to 
see if I could help you. The trial comes on to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow I” exclaimed Martha, faintly, and drawing 
closer to the old man. 

“ The evidence against you is enough to convict any 
man,” continued Hurst, still drawing toward the unfortu- 
nate prisoner. “ The people are excited against you I 
There is but one way to save your life — for the trial once 
v>ver, they will hang you at once I” 

“ But how — how can he be saved ?” cried Martha, in a 

26 


418 THE DESEETED CABIN'. 

voice of eager hope, which overwhelmed ever other 
sound. 

“By escape, Martha, by escape,” replied Hurst, draw- 
ing close to the excited girl. “ It will be easy to break 
jail if he has a friend on the outside. I will be that friend 

by to-morrow morning we can be safe in spite of all the 

constables in the country. I have money enough for us 
all — trust every thing to me !” 

A flash of joy shot over the broad face of Daniel Hart 
as this prospect of liberty was presented to him, but it 
passed away, and grasping his niece’s hand very hard, as 
if to prevent her speaking, he gazed on Hurst’s face 
earnestly a moment, then said, with cool composure, 

“ And what do you expect to gain by it, if I should 
break jail ?” 

“ Nothing, nothing, but your own good will, the kind 
feelings of your daughter, and some favor with this 
proud lady here,” replied Hurst, stammering with em- 
barrassment. 

“ And this is all you would be at ?” continued Hart, still 
with great coolness. 

“ Why, Gillian knows how well I love her. I will 
marry her the minute we get to one of the river towns, 
in spite of all this odium.” 

“ Just so,” muttered Hart, grasping Gillian’s hand still 
more firmly, as he felt her start and tremble. “ But would 
jmu be kind to her ?” 

“ She shall sleep on gold, if she wishes it,” replied the 
young man, with flashing eyes, and, emboldened by the 
quiet way in which Hart seemed to be dropping into his 
plans, he attempted to withdraw her from the protecting 
arm of her uncle, but Hart put a hand against his breast 
and pushed him back. 


THE DESERTED CABIN, 419 

“ 'Not yet — she is not yours just yet. Look here, do 
you think that 1 murdered her father in cold blood 

“ What else can any one think ? He has disappeared. 
His money was found in your chest. What else can be 
thought 

“You believe this, and yet will help the old murderer 
to break jail 

“ I would do a great deal more than that for her sake,’^ 
replied Hurst, casting a look of revolting tenderness on 
the helpless girl. 

“ Well, then, let me tell you, Michael Hurst, if I were 
the cold-blooded murderer that you think I am, I should 
consider my niece here disgraced by marrying a man who 
would help me to escape ; but I am no murderer nor rob- 
ber, either. I wouldn’t run away if these jail-doors were 
flung wide open, and a troop of horses on the outside ! 
If they want to try me for my life, let the neighbors do 
it. If they want to hang me, let them do that too. We 
are ready, Martha, we are ready,” and, wringing his 
daughter’s hand with a sort of mournful exultation, the 
old man looked firmly in the face of his anxious visitor. 
“ My niece would sooner be with her old uncle on the gal- 
lows than your wife. Wouldn’t you, Gillian ?” continued 
the firm old man, folding the poor girl to his side with 
his disengaged arm. 

Hurst began to expostulate again, but the prisoner cut 
him short. 

“ It’s of no use, I tell you, I am determined to stand 
trial. I’m not guilty, and I won’t sneak away as if I 
was.” 

“ But they will hang you. Even Judge Church is 
turning against you now,” persisted the young man, be- 
coming more and more anxious. 


420 


THE DESERTED CABIN. 


“Well, let him,” cried Hart, in a broken voice and 
dashing a tear from his rough cheek ; “ I shouldn’t have 
believed it of him, though I” 

Hurst was about to urge his purpose still further, bub 
that moment the jail-door was swung open, and our old 
friend, the blacksmith, came in. He cast a sharp glance 
at Hurst as he entered, and shook Hart warmly by the 
hand. 

“Well, I have just seen the Judge, and he says your 
trial will sartinly come on to-morrow I” exclaimed the 
good man, with a degree of cheerfulness which seemed 
remarkable under the circumstances. “ They are all 
ready. The attorney has got evidence enough to hang 
fifty men ; the whole would be complete as a nailed 
horse-shoe if they could only find the body. It’s a pity 
they can’t find the body, though, isn’t it ?” 

Hart shook his head and muttered, “ It is strange.” 

“ Got any lawyer feed yet ?” inquired the smith. 

“No,” replied Hart. “What could a lawyer do for 
me ?” 

“ True enough, true enough,” rejoined the smith, fold- 
ing his dusty arms and laughing. “ I will be your law- 
yer. What do you say, gals, shall I be his lawyer ?” 

“You have always been a good friend,” said Martha, 
smiling faintly through her tears ; “ you have brought us 
our meals, and tried to cheer him up every day. No one 
has ever given us any hope but you.” 

“ Yes, yes, depend on it, the truth will come out at last 
-r-such things always do one time or another.” 

The blacksmith turned half-round as he uttered these 
words, and cast a keen glance from under his heavy eye- 
brows at Hurst, who still lingered in the room. 

The young man turned a little pale, but he tried to 


TKIAL AND EXECUTION. 421 

smile, and muttered, in the low, silky voice which he 
could so well assume, 

“ Certainly, the truth always makes itself known at 
last.” 

“Well,” continued the smith, wiping his hand on the 
leather apron which he always wore, and patting Gillian 
kindly on the head before he took leave of Hart, “ keep 
up your spirits, all of you: that is half the battle. I 
have left some provisions with the jailer ; don’t let the 
thoughts of to-morrow spoil your appetite. Come, Mr. 
Hurst, are you going my way ?” 

Hurst hesitated and looked anxiously from the pris- 
oner to Gillian, but meeting no encouragement to remain, 
he followed the smith out with evident reluctance. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 

On the following day The Bend was a scene of great 
bustle and excitement. Hews of the murder had spread 
all over the country, and every man or woman who could 
make business at the county-seat went there to witness 
the trial of Daniel Hart. Long before noon the main 
street was alive with people ; wagons stood by the way- 
side, and a line of saddle-horses extended far down the 
fence which separated the tavern lot from the highway. 

There was no court-house at the county-seat, and Judge 
Church had made arrangements for the trial to take place 


422 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 


in the bar-room of his tavern, which was the most capa- 
cious apartment at The Bend. Benches were placed in 
the body of the room, and, in order to give an air of magis- 
terial dignity to the whole proceedings, a huge arm-chair 
was raised. on a platform within the little enclosure which 
usually served as a bar. A host of decanters and glasses 
were removed from the little shelf which ran along the 
front, and two or three portentous-looking law-books, in 
new sheep-skin covers, occupied their place. As yet, the 
Judge had not taken his seat, and a dense crowd was 
gathered before the tavern, which filled the street almost 
across to the blacksmith-shop, where our friend, the smith, 
was hard at work preparing shoes for one of the half-dozen 
horses that had been brought to his door. Never had the 
good man worked with so much vigor as on that morning, 
when all else seemed to have taken a holiday. His face 
glowed in the fire-light ; great drops of perspiration rained 
from his brow, and he swung the heavy sledge-hammer 
over his head with an impetuosity that made the anvil 
ring with deafening noise over the crowd of persons jostling 
each other and talking warmly about the trial, with their 
faces turned in eager curiosity towards the county jail. • 
The murder of Mr. Bentley had caused great excitement 
in the country, not only because the man himself was a 
general favorite, but from the fact that Daniel Hart, the 
person about to be arraigned for the trial, had been held 
among the most peaceable and honest farmers in the county. 
Notwithstanding the evidence, there might have been 
many found in that crowd who openly expressed a firm 
conviction of his innocence, while others seemed willing 
to pursue him with that reckless and wild spirit of perse- 
cution which is apt to follow the man accused of a capital 
crime all over the world, ^nd which has but little restraint 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 

in many of our frontier States, where the will of the people, 
even now, often usurps the place of law and justice. 

At length there was a slight confusion manifest near the 
jail, and, while the crowd swayed round that way, Daniel 
Hart appeared, walking firmly up the street between two 
constables. His port became more erect as he drew near 
the crowd ; and though somewhat pale, his countenance was 
both firm and mild in its expression. Once or twice a look 
of sorrowful reproach came to his eyes, as they happened 
to fall upon the form of some old friend shrinking back 
into the crowd, as if afraid that an accused man might 
address him. A gain those deep-set eyes flashed gratefully 
when a hand was thrust toward him and a friendly voice 
called out — ^ 

“ Keep up your courage, neighbor ; the darkest hour is 
always just before day.” 

As he approached the tavern, the crowd in the hall and 
veranda made a rush for the bar-room, while the remain- 
der fell back and formed a lane for the prisoner to pass. 
He was followed close by three females — Gillian, the black- 
smith’s wife, and poor Martha. A rough, hard-featured, 
but good-hearted woman was the blacksmith’s wife. She 
was proud of her courage in thus standing by the unfor- 
tunate, as she expressed it, and walked through the throng, 
supporting Martha’s feeble steps, with the mien of a 
newly-enlisted grenadier. Her navarino bonnet, which 
had been fashionable some years before, was set back on 
her head, and its immense sugar-scoop front, flaring up 
from her honest face, gave a still more decidedly military 
dash to her appearance. She waved a plump hand, en- 
cased in its yarn glove, to her husband, who stood at his 
shop door nodding his round head in approbation of her 
proceedings, as she mounted the tavern steps and followed 


424 : TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 

the prisoner, almost carrying her companions, into the 
temporary court-room.. 

The Judge had taken his seat in the bar when they 
brought the prisoner in. On his right hand, but outside 
the railing, stood the prosecuting attorney, turning over 
one of the new law-books with intense interest ; on the 
left side was Constable Johnson, with a large sugar- 
crusher in his hand, which he now and then struck down 
upon the railing with great emphasis, as he called the 
court to order. 

Hart was brought in and placed on a bench opposite 
the Judge, who scrupulously averted his eyes from the 
prisoner’s face, while the jury was impanelled and the 
wh(^le preliminaries entered upon. Never before had a 
court been conducted with so much of imposing form at 
The Bend. Every one looked grave, some even solemn, 
as the prisoner was arraigned. Hart stood up ; his lips 
turned white, and the hands, which he clasped over his 
breast, shook a little, but his eyes were bent full on the 
Judge, and he answered, “ Not guilty, not guilty, so help 
me God !” in a voice that swelled clear and full through 
the listening crowd. 

As the prisoner sat down again, Martha cast a look 
over the crowd, rose to her feet, and, supporting her fal- 
tering steps by pressing her hand to the wall, went round 
to the bench he occupied and crept timidly to his side. 
Gillian followed her, pale as death, but with a firm step, 
and sat down by her cousin. He did not turn his head 
or seem to be conscious of the action, but the lines about 
his mouth began to quiver, and he shut his heavy eyelids 
hard together once or twice, as if determined to force back 
the gathering moisture before it had time to form into tears. 

This sterp effort to subdue the feelings tugging at his 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 


425 


heart, joined to the feeble and desolate air with which his 
daughter had performed her simple act of devotion, had 
its effect upon the impulsive and ardent beings who sur- 
rounded them. That pretty creature, so young, so pure 
and helpless, as she crept through the outskirts of the 
crowd, like a weary fawn following the hunted stag even 
among the hounds, and crouched down by the only being 
left to her on earth, touched their sympathies more than 
a thousand orations would have done. Then the proud 
beauty of Gillian, the solemn dignity with which she at- 
tested her faith in the old man’s innocence, had its effect. 
Though rude backwoodsmen, feeling, good and generous 
feeling, was vital in the tough hearts which composed 
the crowd. A whisper ran through the throng, many an 
unequal breath was drawn, and more than one heavy lip 
trembled without speaking. The foreman of the jury — a 
bluff, hale old fellow — drew his coat-sleeve across his eyes 
two or three times. The Judge turned uneasily in his 
chair, and seemed to be diligently counting the glasses 
crowded on a shelf behind him ; while the blacksmith’s 
wife lifted a flaring cotton handkerchief to her face, shook 
her huge navarino bonnet mournfully, and sobbed aloud. 

“ This will never do,” whispered the prosecuting attor- 
ney, leaning toward Michael Hurst, who stood close 
behind him ; “ who put the girls up to this stage effect ?” 

Hurst only replied by a sarcastic and yet ghastly smile. 
The pompous young lawyer then turned to the judge. 

“ May it please your honor, I desire that the young 
women there may be removed from the court until they 
are called up as witnesses,” be said, pointing tow’ard poor 
Gillian and Martha. 

The blacksmith’s wife flung back her navarino, grasped 
the handkerchief in her hand and gave the lawyer a look 


426 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 


that would have demolished a man of common nerve. ^ Thp 
judge turned hastily on his seat, “ I’ll see you — ^ He 
checked himself just in time, took up one of the law-books, 
as if to seek for some authority, and then replied with 
solemn dignity — 

“ The court has decided that it is no business of yours 
where the girls sit.” 

Daniel Hart, who had grasped his daughter’s hand and 
half risen, sunk back to his seat again, as these words fell 
on his ear, and a murmur of approbation passed through 
the crowd. 

The attorney turned very red, muttered something to 
Hurst in an under-tone, and, after a good deal of ostenta- 
tious preparation, arose to open his case. The chain of 
evidence which he proposed to lay before the court was 
indeed such as left but little doubt of the prisoner’s guilt. 
He was ready to prove that Hart and the deceased 
had come to The Bend together on the night of the 
murder, the one with no ostensible business, the other to 
receive a large sum of money. Eager words and gestures 
had passed between them at the tavern. Hart had in- 
sisted on riding home through the storm, though the 
deceased more than once exhibited great reluctance to go 
After the two disappeared in the woods together, Bentley 
had never been seen again, but two days after his horse 
was found wandering along the highway, with his saddle 
torn and soiled with blood, one of the stirrups gone, and 
the bridle hanging in tatters about his head. 

Michael Hurst and two other men from The Bend had 
gone to the forest in search of the body, but nothing was 
to be found except the marks of some violent struggle 
near the cross-roads. Foot-prints, both of man and horse, 
sunk deep in the mud, were trampled all over the road, 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 427 

just where a huge oak had been flung across it by the 
storm. Two or three small branches of the oak, which 
seemed to have been crushed by some heavy weight falling 
upon them, were broken, and some of their leaves matted 
together with blood, while a black stream had flowed over 
the trunk and stained the earth half a yard round. Most 
of the blood must have flowed after the rain had ceased, 
or it would otherwise have been washed away. But further 
than this, no trace of the body could be found, which 
would not have been the case had the death been acci- 
dental. The same company had proceeded to the double 
log-cabin which had been the mutual residence of Hart 
and his victim. There they had found the prisoner, his 
daughter and Gillian Bentley, the murdered gentleman’s 
only child, with a couple of black people who lived with 
them as help. Hart would give no account of Mr. Bent- 
ley’s disappearance, but persisted that they had ridden 
home together the night before, safe and well. A bag of 
money was found, locked in Hart’s chest ; a linen coat 
with blood-stains on the sleeve was discovered beneath the 
bed, and Hart’s daughter had acknowledged that the stains 
were fresh and wet upon it when her father returned home 
on the night of the storm. 

When the attorney had prepared the court for this evi- 
dence, he sat down, and the examination of witnesses 
commenced. Several persons who had been at The Bend 
that night were called up, and among them the Missis- 
sippi boatman. Michael Hurst was among the last. He 
gave in his evidence in a clear, straight-forward manner, 
as if every word had been studied by heart ; but his face 
was ashy-pale, and he never once fixed his eyes on any 
man, but kept them bent upon the floor, or turning rest- 
lessly from one thing to another all the time he was 


428 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 


speaking. When he sat down, Martha Hart was called. 
She arose very feebly, but did not move from her father’s 
side. When the attorney began to question her, she 
made an effort to speak, and thought that she did, poor 
thing, but the whisper that escaped her lips was so faint 
that no one heard it. 

“ Tell the truth, gal, tell the truth,” murmured the pris- 
oner from beneath the hand which shaded the agony 
working in his face. “ Tell the whole truth.” 

The girl cast one look of anguish on the old man, and, 
summoning all her energies, found voice to speak. She 
admitted that her father had reached home late at night ; 
that he came alone, with blood upon his hand, and gave 
her some money, tied up in a shot-bag, which she had 
locked up in his chest. But she said also, that her father 
had insisted that Mr. Bentley had ridden home with him to 
the door, had watched and waited for him all night, and 
that he was about setting forth for The Bend in search of 
his friend when persons came to arrest him. 

She sat down, trembling and faint, amid the sobs and 
murmurs of an excited audience. Gillian was called next. 
She only confirmed what Martha had said, but ended with , 
an expression of solemn trust in her uncle’s innocence. 

The Judge asked Hart if he had any witnesses to pro- , 
duce, and if he had no counsel. } 

“ No,” said the old man, lifting a face on which the : 
agony of a strong spirit was written. “ No, Squire j 
C hurch, you won’t believe me, and I have no other wit- 
nesses. I don’t want any counsel.” 

The good Judge sank back in his chair with a disap- 
pointed look. The attorney arose, wiped his mouth, 
swallowed a drop or two of water, and commenced a 
bitter and cruel attack upon the pri.soner ; but neither the 


TRIAL AXD EXECUTION-. 429 

judge nor jury were accustomed to the restraints imposed 
on their comfort by this protracted flood of eloquence. 
They sat restlessly in their seats ; one tilted his chair 
back against the wall, another stretched his feet out to the 
nearest bench, and, at last, the Judge, after trying various 
changes of posture, turned, with an air of desperation, 
toward the shelves behind him, and, taking down a box 
half-Tull of cigars, selected one for himself and passed the 
box over to the jury . Two or three of the bystanders helped 
themselves as the box passed them, at which the Judge 
nodded a good-humored welcome. Then he kindled a 
match, and, deliberately igniting his own cigar, leaned 
back and smoked away with grave composure, only stop- 
ping now and then, as some more lofty flight of eloquence 
broke from the lawyer’s lips, to knock the ashes away 
from his Havana against the railing of the bar. 

“ Pass it to him, pass it to him — have you no manners?” 
whispered the Judge to Constable Johnson, who was lean- 
ing forward over the bar, in order to place the box upon 
its shelf again. 

The constable started back and went eagerly up to the 
prisoner, but Hart refused the kind offer, at which the 
Judge shook his head two or three times, for he took the 
refusal of a prime cigar as an evidence of down-hearted- 
uess which nothing could overcome. 

As the lawyer drew toward a close, the Judge became 
much agitated; the cigar went out between his lips, and 
his face looked pale amid the smoky atmosphere that hung 
around him. When the man sat down, there was silence 
for more than a minute, profound, death-like silence, and 
then the Judge arose. 

‘‘ Daniel Hart — neighbor, neighbor ! — have you nothing 


430 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 


to say for yourself?” he exclaimed, with a burst of feeling 
that made the jury start. 

Daniel Hart rose to his feet ; a clear, strong light was 
in his eyes, and, though somewhat pale, he stood firm and 
collected among his old friends. 

“ Yes, I have something to say. You will not believe 
me, but I will speak for myself. All that they have sworn 
against me is true, and yet all that I have said is the 
truth also. I did come to The Bend with poor Bentley. 
I loved the man like a brother, for he was my sister 
Sarah’s husband, and a prince on earth. We came to get 
the money which Judge Church owed him. I found that 
man in the tavern.” Here the old man lifted his hand and 
pointed to Michael Hurst. “ He had insulted my daugh- 
ter — he had outraged my niece and tried to carry her off 
by force. My blood boiled when I saw him. 1 had 
promised the poor gal not to touch him, and yet I found 
it hard work to keep my fingers from his throat. This 
was the reason I wanted to get home — this was what I 
was saying to brother Bentley. 

“We started home. The storm was awful — tree^ fell 
around us like grass before a scythe. It was terrible 
dark, but we kept together till a great oak was torn up 
and fell crash almost over us. Then I thought Bentley 
was knocked from his horse. I saw him on the ground, 
and — so help me God, I speak the truth ! — for one mo- 
ment it seemed to me as if another man was bending over 
him. I rode toward him, but the lightning went out, and, 
while I was calling to him, he rode up to m3" side. I had 
his hand in mine once. The lightning struck again and I 
saw his face : it was white as a corpse, and did not look 
natural, but the voice sounded like his, though it was 
smothered by the noisy wind. I left him at the door to 


TRIAL AXD EXECUTIONS'. 431 

put out the horses, and went into the cabin with the hag 
of money, for he put it in my hand as I gave up my bridle. 
The gal was right : my hand was wet with blood when I 
went in. I was not hurt — the blood was not mine. It 
might have been his. The God of heaven knows I did 
not shed it I” 

The prisoner sat down, but rose again in an instant. 

“ Neighbors I” he said, stretching forth his hand to the 
jury, while his eye flashed and his stout form dilated with 
intense feeling; “neighbors, I have told you the truth, 
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me 
God !” 

He sat down amid the breathless crowd ; no one spoke, 
no^ one moved, but a sound rung over them from the 
blacksmith’s anvil, clear and full, like the quick toll of a 
bell. All at once that ceased, and the silence was pro- 
found. It was broken at length by the blacksmith’s wife, 
who started up, forcing her way to the door and went out. 
When she came back her husband was with her. He 
made way for himself and wife up to the bar, and ad- 
dressed the judge, who had just arisen to commence his 
charge to the jury. 

“ I say, squire, supposing you give me a chance first,” 
said the smith, rolling down his sleeves ; “ I reckon as 
likely as not that I shall have a considerable finger in this 
pie before it’s cooked.” 

“ Do you wish to give evidence ? Do you know any 
thing about it?” inquired the Judge, eagerly. 

“ Well, I should think it likely that I did, squire, so 
just give me the oath. But first bend down your head 
here.” 

The Judge bent his head while the smith whispered 
something in his ear. He then gave some directions to 


432 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 


the constable in a low voice, and that dignitary moved 
round to the other side, and took his station by the 
door. 

The oath was administered, and then the blacksmith 
unrolled a dirty handkerchief which he carried under his 
arm, and took out a muddy boot, a horse-shoe, and a 
scrap of red silk. He had scarcely laid these things 
down before the Judge, when some confusion arose at the 
door. Michael Hurst had attempted to pass out, and the 
constable was forcing him back again. In the struggle 
Hurst’s face was turned to the crowd ; it was ghastly 
white, and when he raised his voice to expostulate, it was 
choked, and so husky that verv few heard him. 

“ Order, order — keep still," resounded through the 
crowd, and Hurst, restored to some presence of mind, 
drew back to his old station. 

‘‘ Well,” said the blacksmith, “ I want to tell you how 
I came by these things, and get back to my work again. 
Well, neighbors, you remember the night of the storm, 
some of you were in town, I shod your horses and worked 
late to get through. Well, among the rest, Michael Hurst, 
there, came, in a terrible hurry, and wanted a shoe put 
on that handsome bay critter that he rides. The animal 
has a delicate hoof, so I was obliged to make nails on 
purpose for it — small nails, such as I never made for any 
other horse on earth. 

“ Hurst took the horse away just before the storm 
came on ; he never took that trouble before, but yet I 
thought nothing about it till a good while after. I saw 
Hart there and Mr. Bentley ride away from the tavern : 
just after that a man came prowling round the stoop and 
along the fence. Still, I didn’t think much about it, but 
after I’d done work went home, feeling rather uneasy 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 433 

about a coal-pit that I had set to burning on some land 
of mine, down below the cross-roads. 

“ I got up in the morning, before daylight, and rode 
down to the coal-pit, expecting to find it blown into ten 
thousand flinders by the hurricane. The road was blocked 
up with trees and brush, but I got along tolerably well 
till I came to the cross-roads, where I meant to cut through 
the woods. I found a tree choking it up, and was walk- 
ing my horse round it, when what should I see but the 
body of a man lying among the branches. It was Mr. 
Bentley, as dead as a door-nail — at any rate I thought so 
then.” 

“Was he alive? Was he murdered ? What did you 
do with him ?” exclaimed several voices from the crowd. 

“ Keep cool, neighbors, keep cool,” cried the smith ; 
“ there, you have nigh about set that poor gal into fits,” 
he continued, pointing to Gillian, who was bending toward 
him with clasped hands and a look of wild anxiety in her 
face. “ I shouldn’t wonder now if she faints clear away 
when I tell you that her poor father was cold and stiff, 
with a knife-hole in his side, but yet there was a breath 
of life in him.” 

His predictions were right. With a single gasp, Gillian 
fell across her uncle’s lap quite senseless, but every one 
present was so occupied with the witness that she remained 
unnoticed. 

“ I have powerful strong arms,” continued the black- 
smith, extending his great hands, “so I took the poor 
fellow up and carried him down to the coal cabin. There 
was a bunk full of straw in one end, and a spring of water 
close by. After I had worked over him a while, he came 
to a little, and asked where I had found him. Of course, 

I was rather curious to know how he came to be bleeding 

21 


434 TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 

in the brush. He seemed loth to tell, but at last owned that 
when he was riding with Daniel Hart through the storm, 
some one fell upon him in the dark, flung him from the 
horse, plunged a knife in his side, and left him senseless 
on the ground. He suffered terribly, poor fellow, and the 
thought that Hart had attempted his life seemed to hurt 
him worse than his wound. He begged me not to men- 
tion the matter, as he was determined not to prosecute 
the old man, and he feared that the affair could not be 
hushed up if people knew that he was wounded. It came 
hard for me to believe that Hart was a murderer and 
robber. I was in hopes that something would turn up to 
clear him, so I made up my mind to keep quiet. I doc- 
tored the poor gentleman up as well as I could, and went 
home, promising to come back after dark with a wagon, 
and take him home with me. 

“When I came to the cross-roads again, on my way 
home, I searched about among the brush to see if 1 could 
find any thing. There was a little hollow close by the 
road, and up one side I saw that the sods were torn, as if 
a horse had lost his foothold and slipped down ; a sassa- 
: fras bush, close by, was broken, and one of its roots torn 
up, and right there, tangled with the root, I picked up a 
horse-shoe. I knew it in a minute, for the small naOs 
had been torn from the hoof, and stuck in the shoe yet, 
and I declare for the first minute my heart flew^ into my 
mouth. Well, I searched round in hopes of finding some- 
thing more, but this scrap of silk, with a bit of twune 
tied to it, was all that I could find. It did not seem of 
much consequence, but I brought it home with the horse- 
shoe. 

“ As I came into town, Hurst’s horse stood in a crook 
of the fence down in the judge’s house-lot, so I just 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 485 

climbed the bars and examined his hoofs. The one that 
I had shod, the night before, was bare as my hand. By 
this .time I was pretty well satisfied who was the mur- 
derer, but yet any other man might not have been as 
certain as I was. I went over to the tavern, and asked 
about Hurst of the folks in the kitchen. They told me 
that he was sick in bed, and had been all night dying 
with the toothache. Just then the hostler came down 
with my gentleman’s dandy boots in his hand ; he had 
brushed one, .when I happened to see something that 
made me anxious to get the dirty boot. The hostler 
went out a minute. I anatched up the boot and made 
for home. 

^‘Well, squire, I took the horse and wagon, and went 
after Mr. Bentley that night. My old woman, here, is a 
first-rate nurse, and he began to get better after a while, 
but this minute he’s as weak as a baby, trying to sit up a 
little for the first time this very day, I never told him a 
word about Hurst, nor any thing concerning the trial of 
Hart, for he was so weak that it might have killed him. 
Besides that, I wanted to see what kind of a lawyer I 
should make. Now, squire,” continued the blacksmith, 
“ I’ve taken oath that this shoe is the one which I put on 
Michael Hurst’s horse at eight o’clock the night of the 
storm, and that I found it just after daylight on the very 
spot where Mr. Bentley was stabbed. Now look at this 
boot ; the clay upon it is red, such as can be found at no 
spot hereabouts, except just at the cross-roads. I took 
the boot with my own hands, and measured it by half a 
dozen of the tracks left on the spot. They fitted it like a 
glove. Now, squire, here is the piece of silk; it seems 
to me that if you’ll just examine the pattern closely, it 
looks very much like the silk handkerchief that Hurst, 


436 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 


there, has got around his neck. He had on the same 
concern the night I shod his horse.’' 

Every eye in the room was turned upon Hurst, }\dio 
cast a sharp glance behind him, and made another 
desperate efifort to force his way through the door. By 
this time the crowd was in a state of wild commotion ; 
those outside pressed up against the windows, eager to 
learn what was passing in the court-room, where the ex- 
citement was increasing every moment. 

“ Off with his handkerchief ! off with it !” thundered 
from various parts of the room. But Hurst flung the 
officer back, and struggled desperately against their at- 
tempts to untie the square of crimson silk twisted care- 
lessly around his neck, but it was secured at last and 
handed to the Judge. The jury crowded around the bar, 
eagerly watching the Judge as he unfolded the handker- 
chief. A corner was torn away, and the fragment pro- 
duced by the blacksmith perfectly fitted the rent... Besides 
this, a pattern of black ran over the crimson groundwork, 
which rendered the handkerchief somewhat peculiar, and 
this pattern was also in the fragment. The jury had 
scarcely satisfied itself of the fact when a portmanteau 
was brought into court, which an officer, who had been 
sent to search Hurst’s room, had found under the bed. It 
was unstrapped, and a hunting-frock drawn forth, torn and 
mouldy, but, notwithstanding this, traces of blood were 
found upon the skirt. When this object was held up 
before the jury, the excitement became intense. Three 
or four men leaped through the window into the bar- 
room, packing the crowd still more closely together. 
The hall was filled with stern, eager faces, pressing for- 
ward to the door, and men stood so thickly together that 
lights had to be passed from hand to hand overhead, as 


TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 437 

those who carried them found it impossible to force a 
passage into the court-room. 

“Make room,jnal^e room, I tell you!” cried a female 
voice fron^Mie crowd ; “ she will be stifled here,” and, 
with l^r arm ftung round the drooping form of Gillian 
Bentley^ the blaoksmith’s wife forced a passage for the 
poor girl where half a dozen men would have failed. 
Wherever her immense navarino rose upon the crowd, 
men fell back, and made way for her where no room 
seemed to exist. As she passed through the door, Hurst 
darted forward, and in a moment would have been safe in 
the dense mass of human beings that filled the darkened 
hall. But Johnson saw the movement just in time, and 
flung him back against the bar. 

'•“He is trying to escape — he will get clear,” cried a 
voice from the window. The cry was followed by a 
moment of comparative silence ; men bent their faces 
together and whispered in groups, while the crowd out- 
side uttered words that made the Judge turn pale. 
The accused man heard them also, and, springing over 
the bar, drew his knife and called upon the Judge to pro- 
tect him, in a voice sharp with agony, that rang over the 
multitude like the cry of a Ir^nted animal. His cap was 
off, his throat was bare, and the breath, as it panted 
through, seemed choking him. His face and hands were 
deathly-white, but a spot of scarlet burned, like a live 
coal, in either cheek, and specks of foam flew from his 
mouth. The sight of a knife, drawn in their midst, ex- 
asperated the crowd, and when the desperate man leaped 
over the bar, with the weapon gleaming in his hand, 
many thought that he was about to attack the Judge. 
Those in front were pushed up against the bar till the 
railing cracked beneath the sudden pressure. Half a 


438 TRIAL AND EXECUTION. 

dozen hands were outstretched to pull the man away, but 
he drew back of the Judge, and made an insane effort to 
intimidate them with his knife. 

The object which possessed the crowd, up to this mo- 
ment, had only been a vague determination to secure the 
accused man and lodge him in some place of confinement. 
The people were greatly excited ; their sense of justice 
had been outraged, an honest and innocent neighbor had 
been hunted within a step of the gallows, before their 
eyes, by the wicked man who stood armed and menacing 
them in the very bar of justice. All the elements which 
lead to violence w'ere aroused in their hearts ; still the 
wretched man might have been safe but for this display 
of his knife, which concentrated the wild passions already 
fermented into a stern resolve. There was no shotTt*; 
the tumult grew less than it had been ; men turned their 
fierce eyes on each other, and a hoarse whisper ran 
through the crowd — 

“ He will escape — he will escape the law. ” 

These were the words that went hissing from lip to lip 
through the room, out from the open windows, and along 
the street. Still there was no tumult, but the crowd 
closed slowly up — up till the bar gave way. A sea of 
eyes — dark, fierce, terrible eyes — met the wretched man 
everywhere ; they glared on him from beneath the light, 
they glared on him through the dark windows, and far 
down a vista in the hall. He dropped his knife, his 
limbs gave way, and, like a branch lopped suddenly from 
an oak, he sunk down behind the Judge, who spread forth 
his arms and strove to protect him. It was in vain — all 
in vain ! The good Judge pushed some of the foremost 
back, he besought them to respect the laws, he shouted to 
those in the street, entreating them to come up and save 


THE blacksmith’s SHOP. 


439 


their neighbors from a great crime. But still they closed 
around him, stern, silent and fierce, with a thirst for blood 
which no heart present had ever felt till then. They tore 
the miserable wretch out from behind his protector. They 
passed him, on a bridge of uplifted hands, to the window, 
and so out into the open street. 

The blacksmith had returned to his work, and the blaze 
of his forge reddened over the fierce crowd, as it fell in 
toward his shop, and formed a wall of human beings be- 
fore it. 

“The handkerchief I the handkerchief!” passed from 
mouth to mouth. Instantly a mass of crimson silk was 
disentangled from some fragments of the bar, and tossed 
over the crowd. The red light shone through it as it rose 
and fell, and a hoarse cry followed its progress. 

Oh, the next scene was horrible — I cannot describe it I 

♦ 5 |! ♦ ♦ 


CHAPTER XLTI., 

THE blacksmith’s SHOP. 

When Daniel Hart recovered from the stupor which had 
fallen upon him, with a conviction that his innocence 
could no longer be doubted, he was sitting in the midst of 
the court-room perfectly alone. A noise — a strange, 
murmuring noise — came surging in through the windows. 
He arose and staggered a few paces forward, wondering 
what had become of his children. A crowd of human 


44:0 THE blacksmith’s shop. 

beings blocked up the street, dark as death, close to him, 
but lighted up, on the opposite side, by a fierce ruddy 
glare. It fell on a platform of stern faces, uplifted, with 
a sort of savage awe, toward a human form swinging from 
a post directly before the huge opening cut through the 
blacksmith-shop instead of a window. Hart cast one 
look toward the form, framed as it was in the rude open- 
ing on a back-ground of fire. He recognized his enemy, 
shrunk back with a gro^n, and, covering his face with both 
hands, shuddered from head to foot. 

As Daniel Hart lifted his face again, the stupor that had 
chained down his faculties gave way, and, for the first 
time, he comprehended, in its entire force, his deliverance 
from danger, and the fearful retribution that had overtaken 
his adversary. 

“ Stop, neighbors ! in the name of God, do not murder 
him !” he shouted, weaving his great hands convulsively 
together, and casting another wild look through the 
window. 

There was a hush in the crowd — the terrible reaction of 
fiercely excited passions. The powerful voice of Daniel 
Hart, as it shouted the word murder, fell like a bolt of 
cold iron on many a living heart. Murderers ! were they 
murderers ? — those stout men, whose lives had hitherto 
been spent in honest toil ! They looked in each other^s 
faces, and each saw the fearful pallor that had fallen on 
the features of his companion. 

Murderers they were — murderers I A moment of pas- 
sion had made them such. A single act, a single half- 
hour, and the black blood-stain had fallen upon many a 
heart which had never known the thought of violence before. 
Alas ! how short a time it takes to fling the one gall-drop 
of crime into a human soul | 


THE B L A C K S M I T n’s SHOP. 


441 


While this appalling silence reigned over the throng, 
Daniel Hart rushed down -the veranda and through the 
crowd, dashing those who opposed his progress to the 
right and the left, like a lion in his wrath. He caught 
hold of an iron in the post where the wretched victim was 
suspended, sprang up with almost superhuman force, and 
made a grasp at the handkerchief, in a wild attempt to 
wrest it from its fastening. He failed, and fell back 
gasping for breath. He took a knife from his pocket, 
opened it with his teeth, and, while the glittering blade 
was still clenched in their fierce hold, sprang into the 
blacksmith’s shop. In an instant he stood in the red light 
of the window, flung one arm around the body, and cut 
the handkerchief. The body fell heavily across his shoul- 
der ; he dropped the knife, and, springing back, laid it 
upon the ground. 

“ Bring brandy — bring brandy !” he exclaimed, tearing 
the wisp of red silk from the purple and swollen throat. 

“ If you raly have an idea of bringing the scoundrel to,” 
said the. blacksmith, quite coolly, rolling up his sleeve, as 
he spoke, “ a good ducking will do him more good than 
all the brandy on arth ; but the fellow has got over the 
worst of it, and, to my notion, is about as well off as he 
ever will be I” 

' While making this philosophical observation, the smith 
took a sooty pail from one corner of the shop, and dipping 
it full of water from a great wooden trough in which he 
cooled his iron, dashed it over the body. There was no 
effect ; not a quivering muscle, not a single motion, gave 
the slightest hope of life. 

You may as well give up ; he’s dead as a door-nail,” 
said the smith, coolly setting down his pail. “ You’d 
better not waste good coneac on the critter, but hand it 


442 


THE blacksmith’s SHOP. 


round to the chaps outside ; they look as if they needed 
it bad enough, gracious knows.’’ 

But all unmindful of his friend’s advice, Hart took the 
measure of brandy which some one had brought from the 
tavern, placed it by his side on the ground, and laving 
both hands in it, bathed the livid face, the throat and chest 
of the wretched being, who had so lately been his bitter 
enemy., When he saw that it was of no avail, he laid the 
corpse reverently back on the cinders scattered deep over 
the earth which formed a floor to the blacksmith’s shop, 
and, covering his face with both hands, groaned aloud. 

“ Come, there is no use in staying here,” said the smith, 
shaking his friend by the shoulder. “ Them poor gals will 
be rather anxious to see you by this time, I calculate ; 
then there is your brother-in-law a-lying in my spare-room, 
as weak as a baby. Come along now, do I” 

Hart arose, drew a deep breath, and went forth with his 
friend. The street was yet filled with scattering groups, 
but they stood away from the sight, and conversed to- 
gether in low, hoarse whispers. Two by two, and in 
larger groups, many of them had left the town, while those 
who had no companions went over to the tavern, and, 
when the beds were full, stretched themselves on the floor, 
for no man of all that multitude had courage to pass 
through the woods alone, after the fearful scene which he 
had witnessed. 

There was that evening a faint star-like glimmer, break- 
ing through the creepers that covered a gable-window of 
four panes in the blacksmith’s dwelling. As Daniel Hart 
drew near the house, his eyes fell on the light; a glow came 
stealing to his heart — thoughts of his daughter, her devo- 
tion, and the returning happiness ensured to her, were 
breaking up the horrid sensations that had almost suftb- 


THE blacksmith’s SHOP. 


443 


cated him. He ascended the rude stairs which led to a 
chamber in the house, and passing his head up through a 
trap cut in the floor, stood, with tearful eyes and trem- 
bling limbs, gazing on the scene which presented itself in 
that humble garret-room. Directly opposite lay the lan- 
guid form of Mr. Bentley ; his head was supported by 
pillows, and the blacksmith’s wife was standing over him, 
with her navarino thrust clear to the back of her head, 
and armed with a huge camphor-bottle, with which she 
deluged the moist hair of the invalid, now and then paus- 
ing to press her wet hand on the temples of Gillian, who 
half knelt, half lay upon the bed, with her eyes fixed on 
those of the wounded man, trembling and crying all the 
time. Her fingers were twined in the hand of the invalid, 
and every other moment she lifted her head and closed the 
fond eyes which gazed so tenderly upon her with kisses, 
that wandered thence over cheek, forehead, and back to 
the eyes again, breaking each caress with words of pas- 
sionate thanksgiving. 

When she saw her father, Martha shook the tears from 
her eyes, and, reaching forth her hand, drew him close up 
to the bed, pressed his broad palm down on the hand of 
the invalid, and kissed them both together, murmuring — 

“ Oh, father I oh, uncle I did you think we should ever 
be so happy again 

“ Thank God I — oh, thank God, my brother, it was not 
you that struck me !” said Bentley, feebly grasping the 
hand which lay against his ; “ but where is he ? what 
will they do with him V’ 

“ Oh, he is settled for, I reckon,” said the smith. 

They hung him up, like a dog, before my shop.” 

“ What — what” — the invalid could say no more ; his 
eyes closed, and a shudder ran through his frame. 


444 


AUTHORSHIP. 


% 

“ Let me — let me said Gillian, taking the camphor 
bottle from the smith’s wife, and pressing her cool damp 
hand tremulously down on the pale forehead of the 
invalid. 

“Well, take it; he seems to like the feel of your hand 
best, so I may as well go down and take my old man 
with me — he don’t know how to tend on sick folks no 
more than a wild Injun ; yet he’s a good-hearted cretur 
as ever lived, though I do say it that ought not to 
say it. ” 

The next moment nothing was seen of the blacksmith’s 
wife except her navarino, as it sunk slowly through the 
trap door, while she cautiously followed her husband 
down-stairs. 

And now they were alone — that united family. 
Bentley was no longer insensible, for even in his fainting 
fit there was a happy thrill warming his heart to life again. 
Notwithstanding all the horrors of the night, that was a 
blissful meeting ; but there was little talking done. What 
of that ? love may be expressed by silence. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

AUTHORSHIP. 

When people tell us that the chain of human sympa- 
thies is limited to propinquity, it is a proof that they have 
studied little and felt less of those mental phenomena that j 
are fast resolving themselves into a science^ There have | 


AUTHORSHIP. 


445 


been hearts so linked together that intense affection an- 
nihilated space, and one suffering soul has imparted its 
anguish to the twin soul thousands and thousands of miles 
away. On the morning when Daniel HarUs trial took 
place in the far West, Hetty Hart awoke with a terrible 
foreboding of evil which no argument of her sister’s could 
conquer and calm. She lay under her canopy of delicate 
lace with burning eyes and scarlet cheeks when Mrs. Ran- 
som entered to inquire after her rest. 

“ I have not slept, Sarah, not one moment, I do believe, 
through the whole night. If I did seem to be dropping 
into a doze, something would make me start up and scream 
for help till my own voice was frightful.” 

Sarah went up to the bed and laid her hand on 
the poor woman’s forehead, where pain was beating like 
a pulse. 

“ But you will sleep now,” she said, gently soothing the 
anguish with her soft palm. “ Let me kiss the place and 
make it well ; our mother used to say that, you know, 
Hetty.” 

“ Our mother, Sarah ! ah, me, I have almost forgotten 
her ! Love for him — my own darling son — has driven 
every thing else out of my life. Our mother was good ; 
but she never dreamed of such mad, aching love as I feel 
for my child.” 

“ My poor sister,” answered Sarah, stooping down and 
repeating the kiss she had given so kindly, “ yours has 
been a hard life.” 

“ Oh, bitter, bitter as gall and wormwood, Sarah I 
Think what it was to chain down and hide this great love 
in my heart, year after year, year after year, when it was 
draining my life out. I could only see him once in a long, 
long while, and then he seemed to think it so strange that 


446 


AUTHORSHIP. 


T took an interest in him ; and when I sat with ray poor 
hands clasped and ray lips pressed together, trying so hard 
to conquer the hungry yearning for one kiss — one little 
kis§ from my own child — he would look at me so indiffer- 
ently, and once I heard him say, as I went out, ‘ I wonder 
what the old maid came for It nearly broke my heart, 
Sarah 1” 

But he knows you now, and loves you dearly, I am 
sure,” said Mrs. Ransom, greatly affected; “how could 
he help it, my poor sister ? — for no mother ever suffered 
as you have.” 

“ Yes, yes, I think he loves me ; yet he went away, and 
I had been ill, worse than you know of — a great deal 
worse.” 

“ I know that you are ill, Hetty,” said Sarah, tenderly. 

“ Sometimes,” added Hetty, and her burning eyes filled 
with tears, “ sometimes it seems to smother me to live in 
this house. Last night the wind came in through an open 
window. The curtains fluttered over me like wings, and 
it seemed as if they wanted to carry me off to him. I got 
out of bed and tried to come to you, but I am not so very 
strong, and somehow my limbs gave w'^ay, so I crept back 
again. Then a voice seemed to cry out, warning me of 
something. Don’t smile, Sarah : I know it was the wind 
moaning through the trees back of the house ; but it wms 
so like a human voice, that I answered, ‘Yes, son, I would 
follow you, but God has taken away my strength.’ ” 

“ What a terrible night you have spent !” said Mrs. 
Ransom, suppressing her tears with difficulty. “ I hope 
Michael will yet reward all this love.” 

“ Not Michael, Sarah, but William ; the name was his 
father’s, and you shall give him that — nobody shall call 
him Hurst after this. Our secret has tortured me so 


AUTHORSHIP 


447 


long, that I have no shame left — nothing but love for 
him and for you, Sarah. I always loved you — always — 
always.” 

“ Indeed, you did, my poor sister ; but try to sleep 
now. Every thing will seem brighter when you have had 
a good, long nap,” said Mrs. Ransom. 

. But Hetty only started up .in bed and began beating 
her laced pillows. 

“ They are hard as rocks,” she moaned ; “ I would rather 
attempt to sleep on red-hot stones. It’s of no use trying 
to make them easy — nothing can do that ; won’t you let a 
little air into the room ? but, no, that will set the curtains 
to fluttering again, and it seems so ghostly.” 

Dear Hetty, you are very nervous this morning.” 

“Am I ? Yes, I dare say ; but the trouble seems too 
real for that. I have been nervous all my life, you know ; 
but it did not hold my heart like this. It seems as if 
something dreadful would happen before to-morrow.” 

Hetty shuddered among her pillows and clasped her 
hands in a sort of agony. 

“ What is it, dear ?” said Mrs. Ransom. “ There is 
nothing that should distress you so !” 

“ There is — there is,” she whispered. 

Sarah saw how deeply the poor thing was affected, and 
began to soothe her, as she would have hushed a child out 
of its nameless grief. She took off the pretty cap and 
smoothed out the gray hair gathered underneath. Two 
years before those tresses were only threaded here and 
there with silver ; now they fell upon the pillows white 
as snow. Sarah sighed heavily as she remarked the 
mournful change. Hetty lifted her large eyes to her 
sister’s face. 

“ It was the second sin that did it,” she said. 


448 


AUTHORSHIP. 


“ Forget that, dear ; no one else will remember any 
thing, except that you have loved and suffered.” 

“You were always kind to me, Sarah, very kind. I 
thought you dead so long, and then I felt like the morning- 
glory vines that you and I used to tend when the wind 
broke down their support ; but nothing ever could make 
me forget you. It is very strange — isn’t it ? but I was 
hardly surprised when you came back and took the second 
load from my conscience. I was so glad to tell the truth. 
It was like rolling a great stone from my heart. He 
thought all these silk curtains and lace and soft carpets 
would makh me happy, but I longed — oh, with what aching 
desire ! — for our old chamber overlooking the orchard. It 
was cruel of Daniel to leave the old house, when I begged 
and prayed so hard that he would stay. The homestead 
is empty now, Sarah. The home that you and I loved is 
desolate as the grave. Neither I nor my boy have a right 
to any thing. It does seem hard, when his father owned 
all, and one hour more of life would have made him the 
heir.” 

“ Hetty,” said Sarah, still smoothing the white hair 
with her hands, “ are you sure that William Bentley started 
for the homestead in order to be married ?” 

“Am I sure ?” cried Hetty, starting up ; “ am I sure of 
my life ? I tell you, sister, had he lived twenty-four hours 
I should have been his wedded wife. That very morning 
I got a letter from him saying so.” 

“ Yes,” said Sarah, thoughtfully, “ it is hard, but I can 
answer for Mr. Bentley. He will not only forgive your 
son, but provide for him as if he were his own.” 

“ Oh, Sarah I why couldn’t you have let him marry 
Gillian ? It might be yet, if you would only insist — no 
one could ever oppose you. ” 


AUTHORSHIP. 


449 


“ Hush ! do not speak of that again ; it is impossible,’^ 
replied Sarah, in a (jold voice that silenced Hetty, but set 
her to treinbling violently. 

After a while Sarah spoke on another subject, striving 
to draw the invalid’s mind from her one idea. 

“ Hetty, you have never told me about our father ; how ' 
he lived after I came away, and how he died. Was it 
calmly, as a noble Christian should pass from one world 
to another ?” 

“ Don’t ask me about him, Sarah, please ; I was so 
afraid of my father after that. He was very good, but I 
crept out of his way till the very sight of him made me 
tremble, for it seemed to me that sooner or later he must 
know. But he never did.” 

“ Was he long ill,^Hetty ?” 

“ Not a single hour. He had been out in the woodshed 
for an armful of kindling pine, and was bringing it in 
when he stumbled at the threshold. Daniel ran forward 
and caught him in his arms, but he never breathed again.” 

“ Then there was no farewell — no explanation — no 
blessings ?” said Sarah, mournfully. 

“Not a word, and I was coward enough to be glad. 
Had he looked into my face with his dying eyes I should 
have told every thing.” 

“ Would to heaven you had ! How much misery might 
have been spared us all !” 

“Are you blaming me ?” said Hetty, in a tone of fretful 
pain. 

“ Blaming you, Hetty — did I ever do that?” 

“ But you think that I ought to have confessed. You 
are dwelling on the sacrifices you have made. I don’t 
wonder. Still it wasn’t like being separated from one’s 
own child.” 

28 


450 


AUTHORSHIP. 


Sarah smiled a little bitterly but said nothing. In'^her 
egotism Hetty had forgotten that the blameless sister had 
been separated entirely from her only child and the 
husband she adored, all for her sin. 

“ That will do, ’ said the sick woman at last, withdraw- 
ing her head from that sisterly hand. “ Just go out now, 
please, and perhaps I shall get a little sleep.” 

Sarah went out, hoping that the suffering woman would 
indeed sleep. But all that morning Hetty continued to 
sit up in bed and moan out the unaccountable distress 
that had seized upon her. 

“ I know that he is sick, suffering, struggling with his 
enemies,” she would moan. ^‘They are hunting him 
down, wounding him. Wolves, gaunt, horrible wolves lie 
in wait for him ; still, but ah, how hungry ! I can feel them 
creeping along the earth, dragging themselves on the 
ground, whimpering with impatience. I will go to him. 
He is my son, mine, mine ! I am not ashamed to own it. 
The secret was rolled from my heart long ago.” 

These strange fancies would seize upon her at times 
with more or less violence, but she slept a little during 
the day, and once or twice Sarah found her resting in 
comparative quiet when she stole softly into the sick 
chamber. 

Toward evening she grew worse. The fever raged hot 
and high in her veins ; her wild eyes grew dazzling, her 
burning hands were forever clutching each other and 
tearing themselves apart with restless action. 

Darkness crept over the^.city, black darkness in which 
the sultry air seemed stagnant. Then the fever burning 
in that frail form flamed up, leaving her thin cheeks scarlet, 
and her lips dry as dead flowers. 

An hour after dark the anguish that seized upon her 


AUTHORSHIP. 


451 


was terrible. She sat up in bed doing fierce battle with 
the pillows and tearing at the curtains. Low cries issued 
from her lips. She made wild efforts to leave her bed and 
flee away, crying out that she was pursued — that thousands 
of wolves lay crouching in the bushes ready to seize upon 
her. Then she uttered a succession of terrible shrieks, 
which ended in choking groans ; her hands flew upward 
to her throat, tearing sonfie imaginary thing away. The 
groans grew fainter and fainter, ^nd with them came 
gushes of warm, red blood. It was this that strangled 
her. She could not breathe through the scarlet torrent. 

At eight o’clock Mehitable Hart died. That very night 
and hour her son was hanging in the red illumination of the 
blacksmith’s window, hundreds of miles away. 

Sarah Bentley went with her sister’s remains into Rock- 
land county, and laid them to rest in the same ground 
with her father, praying that she might have found the 
good old man in the presence of that Divine Being who 
forgives so much to his feeble creatures. Out of the deso- 
late old homestead they carried that erring one : through 
the orchard where she had gathered early summer-apples, 
and across the meadow where the sisters had made dande- 
lion chains when little children, along the path which 
Sarah had trod so often in a brave effort to save that silent 
one, they bare the ooffin along. There was no mourner 
but Sarah — not even a farm servant, to honor his old mis- 
tress ; all had been scattered by her secret sin, yet old 
neighbors bore her to the grave with solemn respect, and 
lifted their hats reverently when the coffin passed. A 
little way from the family burying-spot was a solitary 
grave. The grass had grown rank over it, and a ponder- 
ous monument of marble marked it as the resting-place of 
some wealthy man. Not by her father, but here, close by 


452 


AUTHORSHIP. 


the grave of William Bentley, they laid his frail love down 
to sleep, and on the pure marble of his monument a record 
was cut which the angels must have forgiven that noble 
sister for placing there — a record which told the world that 
Mehitable, relict of William Bentley, lay by his side. 

As Sarah returned to the homestead where some of the 
old furniture remained, a man came forth to meet her. 
He had been walking up and •down the porch, waiting 
anxiously for her return. Sarah held forth her hand, 
smiling a sad welcome. 

^‘Woodworth,” she said, “my dear, dear friend, God 
has sent you to me in my utter loneliness I” 

“ I have been away in the South, hoping by travel to 
wear out the time which lies between me and my bride, 
he’ said, speaking low in respect to her sad mood. “ They 
told me at the house that you had come up here on a 
mournful errand, and I followed you.” 

“ Yes,” said Sarah, with quivering lips, and eyes full 
of tears, “this is a sad day for me.” 

Woodworth looked upon her in astonishment. He knew 
her character well, and was not surprised that she should 
feel the death of any human beipg keenly ; but there was 
a depth and poignancy of sorrow here that troubled him. 

“ Why do you mourn this lady so deeply ?” he said. ^ 
“ She did not strike me as a persoif calculated to draw 
forth such regret. Ah, my friend, will you never learn to 
suffer less for others ?” 

“Hush,” answered Sarah, gently; “Mehitable Hart 
was my sister, my only and dear sister.” 

“ Mrs. Hansom !” 

“ That is not my name, Woodwort]^, though one that I 
hope has not been dishonored in my keeping. I am Sarah 
Bentley, the mother of Gillian.” 


AUTHORSHIP. 453 

He grasped both her hands in his, speechless with the 
joy of this surprise. 

What I you — ^you — her mother and mine I” 

“ Her mother, certainly, and yours if you c^re to call 
me so,” was the gentle answer. 

“ I always felt that you were destined to be something 
to me,” he cried ; “ but this is beyond belief — and Gillian 
knows it ?” 

‘‘ Not yet. They had left New York before I arrived, 
but I have sent a messenger to tell them.” 

“ A messenger : what messenger?” 

“Young Bentley, the person we knew as Michael 
Hurst. ” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Ransom — I beg your pardon — Mrs. Bentley, 
will you never learn prudence ? Why did you send this 
false man on an errand so delicate ?” 

Sarah shook her head in mild disapproval. “ Suspicious 
as ever,” she said, “ always seeing the dark side of a 
character, like a true lawyer.” 

“ But I tell you this young man is treacherous ; I very 
much doubt if he had any claim whatever to your 
husband^s estate.” 

“ I know that he had none,” answered Sarah, tranquilly, 
“ but the temptation was great, and the laws harsh in 
visiting a parent’s |in on his offspring.” 

“ But you admit that this young man perpetrated a great 
fraud against your husband : how then can you trust him ? 
He will surely betray you.” 

“ I do not think so badly of human nature,” answered 
Sarah, with a grave smile. “ I have been his best friend.” 

“ So much the more reason why a man like that will 
turn upon you.” 

“ Oh, cynic and unbeliever.” 


454 


AUTHORSHIP. 


“ I wish it were possible to instil some of my distrust 
into your nature, my sweet friend,” said Woodworth, 
smiling in spite of himself ; “ but come in, if this empty old 
house affords a spot where we can converse comfortably. 
I am all curiosity to hear the particulars of this life- 
romance.” 

Sarah opened the front door and entered the sitting- 
room. Some kind neighbor had built a fire on the hearth 
and dusted the old-fashioned couch and chairs. The two 
friends sat down on the couch, and, with her hands in 
Woodworth’s, Sarah told him all. “ He is my daughter’s 
betrothed,” she said inly, “ and in our household we will 
hereafter have no secrets.” 

“ And so this is the way in which your author’s life 
commenced ?” said Woodworth, reverently pressing the 
hands in his. 

Sarah smiled through her tears, for a sort of self-pity had 
seized upon her while telling of her early trials, and she 
wept more than once like a child. 

“Yes, we tried to earn something by needle- work — 
sister Hetty and I — but what can a poor woman do with 
her needle? I had always been writing little sketches 
and scraps of poetry, only to hide them away under the 
shingles of the garret. It was a thing I could not help 
and was afraid to speak of ; for my father was a very 
^ religious man, and looked upon the parables almost as an 
unauthorized interpolation of the Scriptures. I had many 
bright, high thoughts in those days, which vl^ould not die 
out unexpressed. I did not know what all this meant at 
the time, for these thoughts came before I had a full 
knowledge of the method whereby books were created. 
But I never heard a hymn out of measure in church 
without an impulse to supply the missing cadence, and 


AUTHORSHIP. 


455 


would wander off from the dry books in my father’s little 
stock to think how much more beautiful they might be 
made. 

“When my sister’s troubles came, and the need of 
money for the support of her child pressed upon us, it 
broke on me like an inspiration, one night, that God had 
given me some gifts by which my sister’s child might be 
kept from perishing, and her good name saved. I got up 
in the night. We were on Long Island, and poor Hetty 
had her baby with her for a day or two: he was ill and 
troublesome, but we thought it a great blessing even to 
hear him cry. I took the boy from his sleeping mother’s 
bosom, and carried him up and down the room, framing 
iny first real poem as I walked, and kissing his warm 
cheek between the pauses. It was an exciting subject. 
There had been a revolution beyond sea, and tyranny 
had crushed it down. I imagined the condition of a 
mother and her son, when the husband and father was 
brought home dead — no matter about the rest. I had a 
great object, and a theme which made every pulse in my 
heart thrill with patriotism. I wonder the loud beating 
of my heart did not frighten the babe : on the contrary, 
the heave and fall of my bosom seemed to rock him into 
a sweet slumber. Hetty slept on, with her hands clasped 
and a smile on her lips, evidently dreaming that the boy 
was in her arms yet. 

“When the poem was finished — for I did not write a 
line till the next day — I lifted the boy up and gave him a 
thrilling kiss of joy. ‘ It is good,’ I said. * It is poetry, 
I know — such poetry as thrills the public heart, or it could 
not have left so much fire in mine.’ 

“ I spoke aloud in my exultation. The boy awoke, and 
smiled upon me. I clasped him close, raining kisses on 


456 


AUTHORSHIP. 


his face ; I must have kissed something, then, or burst into 
tears. • 

“‘We will find a way of earning bread for you yet, 
my little fellow,’ I said ; ‘ wait a while, and, God willing, 
we will give you an education that shall be better than 
gold.’ 

“ The boy smiled and beat the air with his tiny hands, 
as if to say, ‘ Only give me the means, and I’ll show you 
how a youngster can cut his own path through the world.’ 

“ It was a singular confidence — that which I bestowed 
on the baby that night ; but his bright eyes gave me in- 
spiration, and I whispered a thousand silly hopes to him, 
as I walked the chamber, clasping him close to my bosom. 
After a while I took him to bed, and then a reaction came 
over me, as I reviewed the poem I had written only in my 
mind ; it grew tame and commonplace : my brains went 
vigorously to work making changes, and the daylight 
found me worn out and disappointed with the whole. 

“ The next day I went to the city. Up to this time I 
had never mentioned the idea of my life to any human 
being. I neither knew an author or publisher in the 
world ; but I had read good books, and knew that the 
men and women who wrote many of them must be living. 
One man, the author of some novels of great power and 
originality, which had made themselves known abroad, as 
well as at home, I had seen. His brilliant lecture before 
some literary society had thrilled my whole being in the 
listening. I had never spoken to this man in my life ; 
but he was the first author I had ever seen face to face, 
and he seemed like an old acquaintance, long before the 
lecture closed. I knew where this man lived, and went to 
his house with my manuscript poem written out. ‘ He is 
a poet and a great man,’ I said, ‘ and such people must 


AUTHORSHIP. 


457 


love to aid those who cannot help following after them * 
So I went to his house less timidly than you may suppose. 
He sat in his study writing, when I entered ; he was en- 
gaged on some law paper, I think, for he was a hard- 
working man, and tamed his genius down to many a 
severe, dry study. 

“ This man scarcely seemed surprised at seeing me, hut 
rose from his seat and came forward with a bright, cordial 
smile on one of the finest faces I ever saw. 

“ I scarcely remember what I said, or how that poem got 
into his hand ; but we sat down by his desk together, and 
he read it carefully. A smile beamed all over his face 
more than once. Then he would shake his head, and two 
lines which ran down between his brows drew close 
together, and I felt that there was some fault of sentiment 
or rhythm which jarred on his fine senses. But the 
predominating expression, and I read every change keenly, 
was one of surprise and pleasure. 

“‘Well,’ he said, laying down the paper, ‘how many 
of these things have you written ?’ 

“ ‘ Only this,’ I answered. 

“ ‘ And what can I do for you, my child V he resumed, 
with a smile that made my heart leap. 

“ ‘ Tell me if it is good for any thing.’ 

“ ‘ Good for any thing ! Yes, child, it is good for a 
great deal.’ 

And I nped not be ashamed to offer it to some paper 
or magazine V 

“ ‘ With half an hour’s polishing, I should not be 
ashamed to offer it as my own.’ 

“I burst into tears. Till that moment I had not 
understood how intense was the anxiety that brought me 
there. 


458 


AUTHORSHIP. 


“ ‘ But how can I make it more worthy ?’ I inquired, 
ashamed of this outburst, and trying to laugh. ‘ It seemed 
easy enough in the night, when the whole thing first came 
to me ; but this morning I felt that it was very imperfect, 
but could not tell where or why.^ 

“ ‘ I dare say,’ he answered, laughing. * Poets do not 
leap into perfection at a single bound. Genius is but a 
species of madness, without study, perseverance, industry, 
and a great deal of common-sense.’ 

“ ‘ I am industrious,’ was my answer ; ‘ and if you say 
that there is hope for me I will persevere ; for I have a 
great object to attain.’ 

“'Indeed? And so young !’ 

“ He uttered these words half as an exclamation and 
half as a question. I felt the color flash into my face, but 
said nothing in reply. He had compassion on my embar- 
rassment; and, taking up a pencil, began to mark the 
faults in my poem. I watched him with hushed breath, 
and with every dash of the pencil my heart went down 
heavily. He looked up from the paper and saw that I 
was growing pale. 

“ ' It is a beautiful poem, a noble poem,’ he said, ‘ and 
should have no imperfections.’ 

“Again my eyes filled with tears. I could have knelt 
down and worshipped that man for his kindness ; yet he 
was a severe critic, and dealt with me as a father teaches 
the child he desires to improve. 

“ ‘ There,’ he said, giving the paper into my hands 
again, ‘ I have marked the faults — you must remedy them ; 
but let me explain.’ 

“ He went over the poem line by line, told me where I 
was wrong — that this word jarred with another far away, 
making discord to a sensitive ear. But the subject, the 


AUTHORSHIP. 


459 


soul and spirit, he did not attempt to disturb. ‘ That was 
the rich, rough gold,’ he said, ‘which industry and taste 
formed into shapes of beauty.’ 

“ This liberal praise neutralized the humiliation of those 
pencil-marks. He was so genial, so earnest in his attempts 
to lead me safely into the path of letters, that I was con- 
stantly forgetting that an hour before we had been stran- 
gers. 

“ When the poem had been sufficiently scrutinized, he 
pleasantly turned the conversation on myself. In my 
earnestness of purpose I had forgotten even to give him 
my name. Now, I told him frankly all about my life in 
the country, the scraps of verse that lay hidden under the 
old rafters of the homestead, and of my grand old father,' 
with his stern sense of right, his clear judgment and in- 
domitable pride. 

“My author was a New England man, and he under- 
stood this character well. He seemed to be delighted 
with the fresh feelings that I had brought in from my 
country-life, and we became fast friends from that pleasant 
hour. When I left him, there was not a passage in my 
life that he did not know, except the painful secret which 
lay between me and my sister. That was not mine to re- 
veal, and in my innermost soul I had sworn to keep it 
from all mortal knowledge. 

“As I was going out, my new friend said to me, in his 
prompt, impetuous way, ‘ Wait a moment ; I had forgotten ; 
you will want to publish that.’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ I faltered ; ‘ it is important.’ 

“ ‘Do you know any publisher V 

“ ‘ No, I am a stranger here.’ 

“ ‘ Stop, I will give you a letter to one who has some 
faith in my judgment. Take the poem to him — that is 


460 


AUTHORSHIP. 


when you have completed it ; but be careful about the 
proofs.^ 

“ ‘ The proofs I’ I repeated, in utter bewilderment, for 
I knew no more about the process of printing than a child. 

“ He laughed again, and commenced walking up and down 
the room, jingling a bunch of keys in his hands, delighted 
as a child at having found any thing so ridiculously un- 
sophisticated. 

“ ‘ Well, well, child, when they send you some long 
strips of thin paper with your poem printed on it, come to 
me and I will teach you to correct it. The whole thing 
is simple enough when you know how. But send the 
proof to me — send it to me !’ 

“ I was distressed by the thought of claiming such help 
from a man of his position, and said so. 

“ ‘ My child,’ he answered, with gentle seriousness, 
* God’s creatures are intended to help each other. Some 
of these days you will be doing the same thing.’ 

“ I laughed at the absurd idea. The greatest wish I 
bad at the moment was to win a support for my sister’s 
child. Thoughts of fame or greatness had never yet 
entered my mind ; and I doubt very much if lasting power 
ever came out of efforts which find their root in mere 
selfish ambition. 

I went home with a sweet hope at my heart, and spent 
that day in finishing up my poem. It was wonderful how 
that one lesson had enkindled my mind. It seized upon 
the suggestions in those pencil-marks, and turned them 
into ideas that made my soul glow. When it was finished, 
the poem seemed like a new creation to me. I began to 
love it again. 

“ The next day, early, I went to the publisher of a 
magazine with my note of introduction. Fortunately he 


AUTHORSHIP. 


461 


happened to be disengaged, and seeing, perhaps, the 
keen anxiety in my face, read the manuscript at once. 
Qh, how my heart beat as he unfolded the paper I I 
watched his eyes as they fell from line to line, but could 
read nothing there. He folded the paper, seemed to 
think a moment, then thrust it into a pigeon-hole in his 
desk, took a key from his pocket, and opened a drayv^er. 

‘ If this will be satisfactory,^ he said, without a word . 
of comment, ‘ I shall be pleased to hear from you again. ’ 

I took the bank notes that he held toward me with 
strange feelings of mingled exultation and humility — 
exultation that one effort of my pen had achieved so 
much ; shame that I could take money for a God-gifted 
talent. But the publisher neither saw the trembling of 
my limbs or the burning of my cheek. To him our inter- 
view was ended, and he began to search among his papers 
with the constraint of a person who wished to be alone. 

I wanted to thank him for the great joy he had given me, 
but he grew more and more intent on his papers, and 
nodded at them rather than me when I left the room. 

“ When I reached home and found myself quite alone in 
my chamber, I glanced at the money ; then upfolded it, 
and was frightened at the amount. It was not much, as 
we value these things now, but I must have worked a 
month at my needle — nay, two months— for the notes that 
fluttered in my hand. Still I looked at them shyly, and 
hid them away about my person like a thief. It was im- 
possible to convince myself that they were honestly mine, 
that I had not been receiving an abject charity, or, worse 
yet, practising some fraud on the deluded publisher. But 
the money was there, and for some weeks, at least, 
that unfortunate child, thrice loved because of the pity 
which came with him had been provided for. That 


462 


AUTHORSHIP. 


relief was a blessing which made itself felt through my 
whole being. 

“ I did not tell Hetty how the money had been earned ; 
but she knew that I possessed it ; and we went for help 
and counsel to Mr. Frost, a blessed old minister of the 
gospel, whose life was spent in such deeds as make angel's 
brighten with beautiful hopes of humaility.. He gave 
• both. A good nurse was found for the child, and we 
went home to Rockland county, carrying our secret 
burden into the old homestead. I had made arrange- 
ments with the publisher, through my noble friend, and 
contributed little sketches and poems for his magazine 
every month. But Hetty worked on with her needle 
industriously as ever, and with every package of manu- 
script we sent down parcels of fine needle-work, which 
the poor soul spent half her nights in. getting ready for 
the fancy-stores. I would have prevented this, but she 
took pathetic pleasure in her toil, and grew almost jealous 
that I should have the power of contributing more money 
toward her child’s support than she was capable of earn- 
ing. This was the beginning of my real life. I was not 
content with scribbling light things now and then, but 
studied hard and toiled over my productions when the 
passion of composition was over; copying, recopying, 
condensing, and elaborating them, till they soon won a 
place among the favored contributions of the magazine 
I wrote for. My noble friend had taught me that author- 
ship was no holiday work, and that pink and blue ribbons 
did not often tie up the best manuscript. I felt then, and 
I feel more intensely now, that a profession which has its 
groundwork in immortal thought should not be undertaken 
lightly ; that fame, when it ennobles womanhood, should, 
like sacred incense, float only over the pure of purpose 


AUTHORSHIP. 


463 


and the strong of soul. To create is to be grand. The 
priest who proves false to his religion is less unworthy 
than the woman who, being an author, degrades the 
dignity of her sex, or the glory of pure thought.” 

Sarah Ransom spoke rapidly and with the force of deep 
feeling, for she knew well that her auditor gave a noble 
sympathy to every word she uttered, and put no restraint 
upon the enthusiasm that kindled her face and lighted her 
eyes like an outburst of sunshine. It was not often that 
this woman gave out so much of the life which was within 
her ; she was in many respects a woman of the world, and 
understood the public level too well for much exhibition 
of feeling except with her. most intimate friends. As 
the true Christian feels reluctant to drag that which is 
most sacred to him into public comment, she seldom un- 
vailed the thoughts that broke from her now. But as the 
memories of her life rose more and more vividly before 
her, she spoke without hesitation, feeling how completely 
the man who listened understood her. Woodworth said 
little ; her narrative interested him deeply, and he was 
reluctant to turn its course even by a word. 

She looked at him with her kindling eyes, that had 
grown almost black within the hour. 

“Have I been talking too ardently, ray friend ? Is this 
egotism ?” 

“ It is the truth, and I love to hear it. Go on.” 

“ Where was I ?” she said. “ Oh, I remember.” 

The light went slowly out from her face, a tearful sound 
stole up through her voice. 

“ Then my husband came. We loved each other. I 
can say no moife than that — we loved each other and were 
married. He was a noble man, Woodworth, proud, 
sensitive, exacting sometimes, but still truly noble. 1 


464 


AUTHORSHIP. 


married him with that burden on my soul. But for that — 
oh, but for that cruel, cruel secret our happiness would 
have been perfect. It was almost so for a while, for the 
power of my love was so great that it overwhelmed every 
thing. I could look up to this man with prpud reverence. 
I was neither ashamed nor afraid when my love grew into 
worship. I was sometimes haughty with other men, and 
liked to feel my own superiority ; but with him, the best 
gifts I possessed seemed too commonplace for attention. 
I was ambitious for him, never for myself. I wanted the 
whole world to acknowledge his perfections as I did. 
Such love is only felt once in a lifetime ; it can neither 
change nor die, but must live forever, a joy or a pain. 
When it turned to pain with us the agony was worse than 
death.” 

Here the noble woman paused : her face had became 
white as snow ; there was a shiver of pain in her voice. 
The hand that sl^laid on Woodworth’s was cold. 

I cannot dwell on this. In the very inidst of our 
happiness, when I was a mother, and we both worshipped 
the new soul bom to us, he discovered the existence of 
that child, and traced out the chain of events which seemed 
to fasten the disgrace of its life on me. My heart had 
never dreamed how proud it was till this charge was 
made by his lips. It swallowed up every other feeling 
and refused even an attempt at explanation. I was mad 
with the anguish of this undeserved shame. ' He should 
have known me better,’ I cried, in the stillness of my 
solitary room. I would have blinded my own eyes rather 
than believe them, if they saw evil in him. Yet he 
condemns me even at the first word. What if he did sqe 
that wretched child in my arms — on my bosom — with its 
lips to mine, and its hands in my hair, crowing and laugh- 


AUTHORSHIP. 


465 


ing at the sight of me ? What if I had, long ago, in my 
girlhood, sold needlework at the shops to support it, and 
had, since our marriage, used some of the money he 
lavished on me so lovingly when I was too happy for 
writing? Was that a reason why he should fix these 
loathsome suspicions on his wife ? 

‘'These were the thoughts that wounded me for many 
a long, dreary night. But no explanation was made. I 
could give none without casting the burden, that I was 
strong enough to bear, on my poor sister, who would have 
been crushed into the grave by it. I had promised, and 
I kept my promise the more resolutely because I would 
have trusted him, or, if not that, forgiven him without ex- 
planation. 

“ Sometimes the anguish of our nearness, and yet com- 
plete sunderance, was so terrible that I faltered ; but one 
thought of my old father, with his puritanical pride, gave 
back my firmness, and I learned ‘to suffer and grow strong.’ 

“ The torture of this life lasted till we had dragged our 
misery beyond seas, out of the reach of scandal. At 
Naples we separated finally. Our child was placed in a 
convent. He went eastward to the Holy Land. I was 
left alone.” 

Mrs. Ransom struggled with the tears that had com- 
pletely stopped her voice, and spoke again. 

“ Forgive me, but sometimes I cannot help giving way 
to this self-pity,” she said, attempting to smile, but failing 
mournfully. “ I was very ill then for a long time. Oh, 
my friend, my friend, it is not the hearts that break which 
suffer most ! I got better at last, and began to creep out 
into the open air on cloudy days — the sunshine seemed to 
wound me. One day, a woman who seemed above the 
common beggars, came up to me and in her sympathetic 
29 


466 


AUTHORSHIP. 


language entreated a little money to buy food with. I 
took a piece of silver from my purse and gave it to her. 
She looked at the coin and at me ; her fine eyes shone with 
sudden tears ; she ‘pressed kisses on my hand. In my 
whole life I had never witnessed so sudden an exhibition 
of joy. 

‘‘ The coin I had given this woman only possessed the 
value of five shillings, but it had made her happy. I stood 
watching her, as she disappeared down a side-street, with 
envy. What on earth would ever make me happy again ? 

“As I walked on, a thought came to me, born of this 
. incident. It said: ‘While you have the power to make 
others happy with so little effort, what right have you to 
give up all as lost V 

“ I went home to my apartments filled with new vigor. 
Hitherto my life in Naples had been isolated. I had been 
too selfishly wretched for any thought of doing good to 
others. As I went up-stairs, a woman, that I had often 
seen about the house, met me. Her eyes were flushed ; 
she had been weeping, and looked at me wistfully, as if 
afraid to speak out something that troubled her mind. 

“ I stopped at once, and inquired what I could do for 
her. 

“‘Oh, Signora I’ she said, ‘it is not for myself that I 
grieve, but the poor lady overhead ; she is dying — ah, so 
miserably !’ 

“‘Show me where to find her,’ I said; ‘I, too, have 
been ill, but God will give me strength to reach this sister 
sorrow.’ 

“ She led me into a small chamber in the top of the 
house, and there I found a young woman, about my own 
age, in the last stages of a rapid consumption. She had 


AUTHORSHIP. 467 

been very beautiful ; but now the mere wreck of her love- 
liness filled me with painful sympathy. 

“This woman told me her history, but it would only 
revive an old distress to repeat it. She was an Ameri- 
can — the wife of an artist who had fallen in love with her 
beauty, taken her from her country-home directly abroad, 
and, burying himself in his studies, left her in the most 
dangerous society on earth to make her way as she pleased. 
It ended, as such neglect of the young and thoughtless 
sometimes will, in utter ruin. After a year or two she 
wandered off to Naples and lay dying there. 

“ This wretched woman was young and in distress, 
therefore worthy of compassion. She had been very sin- 
ful, and for this reason was in greater need of compassion. 
How much more terrible her suffering than mine, I 
thought. Blessed with a consciousness of innocence, what 
right have I to droop, while she is dying with the vulture 
of guilt gnawing at her heart ? Pity for this poor soul 
reconciled me to life. I grew strong in supporting her 
weakness — hopeful, while showing her how beautiful 
eternity might be. She died, and we buried her in the 
Gampo •Sante. They asked for her name, and I gave 
them mine. 

“ From that day I took the name of Julia Ransom, left 
Naples, and went into one of those small inland towns 
that seem to have crept out of the middle ages, merely 
to make a lovely landscape picturesque. 

“ In this town I remained a year, and then, for the first 
time since my unhappy marriage, I began to feel a strong 
desire to write, not the imperfect sketches that had been 
my best efforts hitherto, but something in which a soul 
grown strong in sufferin^g might pour itself out with the 
power aifd force of experience. There arose also a neces- 


468 


AUTHORSHIP. 


sitj that I should make some effort for my own support. 
There was still a little fund in America for the child, but 
that would be exhausted in time, and I must think of 
providing more. Just at this period I received a letter 
from Mr. Frost. His health was failing, it said, and he 
had found another person to look after the interests of my 
little charge when he was gone. The good man spoke 
of death as if it had been some pleasant journey which 
he intended to take. It was the last letter I ever received 
from him. 

“ Well, I commenced the book. At first, when my ef- 
forts sprang entirely from the imagination, writing had 
been a passion with me ; but now habits of thought and 
bitter experience were converting them into a power. By 
this time I understood the Italian language well. I 
found a resting-place in one of those pretty hamlets 
which lay in the hills, near the convent where my 
daughter lived. My heart so yearned for a look at her 
now and then that I disguised myself as a sister of 
charity, and, during the months that I stayed in the 
neighborhood, saw her at least every week. But this in- 
dulgence broke up my life with such feverish tenderness, 
and became so painful in its restraints, that I felt myself 
growing feeble and weak under it. One day I went to 
the convent, took the little one in my arms, kissed her 
with silent blessings, and went away, resolved to give her 
up rather than feed my soul on the husks of concealed 
affection. In my whole life I had never parted with her 
more quietly ; but the aching heaviness of my heart has 
not passed away from that hour to this. 

“I went to England and made double negotiations for 
publication of my book in that country and in my own. 
How successful it was in both nations, I need not say. 


AUTHORSHIP. 


469 


But it was the work, the absorbing occupation that lifted 
me out of my own unhappy life, which I cared for most. 
If some little fame was the result I scarcely knew it, or 
desired that others should know it. 

^‘At last I came back to America, a lonely ’^yoman, but 
not altogether unhappy ; for out of my life came many 
sweet duties, and exertion brought its own reward. My 
father was dead — a stranger told me this, when I asked 
if he knew the old man. Daniel had lost the young wife 
he had married in our happier days, and my sister kept 
house for him in the old homestead. They had no need 
of me — I was dead to them and all the world — dead and 
buried in that blooming hill-side back of Naples. 

“ It was at this period that I became acquainted with 
you, my friend. Time and sorrow had changed me so 
much that I was safe from discovery, even in the city 
where I had formerly lived. I bought the little cottage, 
and settled down into the quiet life you know of. My 
sister’s child had become a bright, intelligent youth. 
I was his only friend, and he seemed to give back some- 
thing like regard for the benefits I had conferred upon 
him. His life in college was marked with singular de- 
votion to his studies, and a reckless expenditure of money 
which alarmed me ; but his explanations, if not satis- 
factory, were always so plausible that, knowing his un- 
happy position, I had no heart to inquire too closely into 
the truth of his statements. 

“ But the quiet of my life was broken up suddenly and 
forever. Scarcely had I got Michael established in a 
mercantile house, and seen him honorably started in his 
career, when I was surprised by the news that my hus- 
band and daughter had arrived in America. My first im- 
pulse was to break up the little home, which had been my 


470 


AUTHORSHIP. 


safe resting-place for so many years, and flee into foreign 
parts again ; but a wild desire to know something of these 
beloved ones — ^to look on his face once more, and hear the 
voice of my child — was too urgent; at any risk, I de- 
termined to wait, for a strong conviction seized upon me 
that our separation would not prove forever. Perhaps, 
now that our father was gone, Hetty might, of her own 
free will, take the secret burden from my life. 

“ I waited, and the good God sent Gillian, our bright, 
glorious child, into my very arms. She loved me at first 
sight, and I — great heavens I it seemed as if this heart 
would break under the swell of its joy, when she lay 
for the first time on my bosom : all the hushed love of 
many years rose up and surrounded her with its richness. 
I was jealous of every look she cast on another. The 
very tones of her voice seemed too precious for any ear 
but mine. I was greedy of every word she spoke, of her 
very glances, as they fell through the window ; it seemed 
as if nature itself were robbing me. 

“ She told me of her father — my husband, remember — 
how he had mourned and how he had suffered. I re- 
cognized it all, and the great love that had lain buried 
under my dreary life so long broke forth with a vividness 
that no will could resist. All that was strong or grand 
in my nature swelled up with it, leaving the paltry pride, 
which had perhaps separated us more than any thing else, 
like drift-wood hurled away by the torrent. 

“ You remember the ball which marked Gillian ^s coming 
out; how I hesitated, evaded, relented, and at last appeared 
there. Woodworth, when I met my husband in the 
library of that house it was the first time in almost fifteen 
years. Is it a wonder that I fainted ? Is it strange that 
I was beside myself that night — that I followed him into 


AUTHORSHIP. 471 

his private study, and finding him struck senseless there, 
held him for one moment against a heart that had never 
ceased to worship him ? 

But I had seen my sister. At first it was with a 
vague hope of pleading with her, but she was so frail, so 
weak in every way that I gave the thought up in despair. 
So that one embrace was only a farewell. I could not 
live in the same city, nay, on the same continent with 
him and keep silence. The agony of that one night 
warned me of this, and once more I fled.” 

Mrs. Ransom ceased speaking ; there was nothing more 
to tell of which Woodworth was not already informed. 
She did not give her reasons for returning so unexpectedly, 
for, even then, tender forbearance for her sister’s child kept 
all expressions of blame from her lips. She wished to 
see right done, but not in vengeance. 

“And you have suffered so much, my friend,” said 
Woodworth, filled with wondering sympathy ; “so much, 
and even I never guessed it.’^ 

“ Why should you ?” she said, smiling sadly. “ Prayers 
and sorrow lie between the heart and its God. ” 

“ But you seemed cheerful,” said Woodworth. 

“ And I was so. Why not ? My life was full of bless- 
ings. God withheld nothing from me but human love.” 

“ True ; but that is like withdrawing sunshine from the 
earth. ” 

She smiled radiantly in answering, “ But I have the 
sunshine now ; a few weeks and all the bloom of my life 
will come back. It is here now, for I know in my soul 
that he loves me yet.” 

Sarah grew beautiful as she spoke ; the fire-light flamed 
up and revealed the brooding joy in her eyes — deeper and 
holier joy than ever shone up from the soul of a young girl. 


m 


AUTHORSHIP. 


“ Gillian, mj child, loves you,” she said, folding two 
white hands over her knee and falling into a dreamy 
posture. Such love is fresh and beautiful. It reminds 
me of apple-blossoms when they first give their perfume 
out. Some men fear that this bright dawn of the heart 
will fade away, leaving only the commonplace behind. 
But I tell you, Woodworth, that after-love, the fruit which 
swells out from the blossom, still keeping its shadow at 
the core, is worth a thousand worlds of this evanescent 
freshness. Love has its phases like all human passions ; 
the sacred richness of its repose is enough for me.” 

*‘And shall be enough for your friend, when the 
time comes; but I should not care to leap over the 
blossom season,” said Woodworth, coloring pleasantly in 
the fire-light. 

“Now,” answered Sarah, rising out of her dreamy 
state, “let us talk of the future. What are your plans ?” 

“The first,” replied Woodworth, cheerfully, “is to 
find my lost lady-love, and ask that as little time as pos- 
sible shall separate us from the parson’s blessing. The 
time of my probation is up, thank heaven I” 

“ I will go with you,” said Sarah, gently ; “ now that 
she is asleep down yonder, there is nothing to delay us.” 

“ It will be a hard journey, dear lady, and you are worn 
out with watching.” 

“lam used to hard journeys,” she said ; “ and as for 
weariness, there will be no rest for me till I have seen 

them. ” 

“ Then let us start in the morning.” 

“ I will be ready,” she answered. “ Now, farewell, till 

then. ” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


THE REUNION. 

Once more that double log-cabin gave signs of active 
life. Dinah and Liz — now a pretty colored girl — had left 
The Bend, where they had followed those two seemingly 
orphaned girls, and in a marvellously short time placed 
the old home in a comfortable state of preparation. 

John Downs had been miserable during the trial, but 
now he came out in great spirits, and the wild turkies, 
prairie chickens, quails, and delicate little birds that he 
brought into Dinah’s kitchen were enough to feast a 
whole township. The happiness of that young man was 
something beautiful to behold, when he lifted Mr. Bentley 
out of the wagon which had brought him from The Bend, 
and half carried him into the best sleeping-room, which 
the girls had arranged for his reception. 

John knew that his wedding-day was near at hand. 
No horrible murder or heart-rending trial could come 
again between him and his happiness, for the cruel power 
which had worked so much evil in that family was swept 
away as it were by a whirlwind. 

With deep and solemn thanksgiving the family once 
more returned to the shelter of that humble roof, scarcely 
thinking as yet that the wild impulse of a mob had 
restored them to wealth and position again. The good 
God had been directly merciful in saving Daniel Hart’s 
life. By his own crime young Hurst had fallen. The 

473 


474 


THE REUNION. 


shock of his horrible death was still too great for actual 
rejoicing among the persons he had so deeply wronged. 
So with quiet thoughtfulness they settled down into their 
humble life again. 

Daniel Hart seemed to have grown stronger and more 
genial from his trial. He went back on the very first day 
to the clearing, and after grinding his axe, levelled the 
dying chestnut to the earth, with blows that made the 
forest reverberate once more. 

Gillian, too, restored to her father, and saved from the 
terrible anguish that had almost killed her, became hope- 
ful again, as youth will, and began to wonder in her heart 
why Woodworth had kept so long silent. It was now 
time that he should come West and claim her for his wife 
— full time. In her trouble she had scarcely thought of 
this, but now that the great sorrow was lifted from her 
life she grew anxious. As for Martha, what with visits 
from her lover in tl^jmorning, excuses for coming with 
garne at night, and chance interviews every hour or 
two, she managed to take life with considerable cheer- 
fulness. 

But Dinah ! her works in the kitchen were something 
wonderful. She wasn’t going to have a dispensation of 
providence, that seemed more than a miracle, passed over 
without becoming festivities. The day that Mr. Bentley 
returned home — a little weak, but looking well and hap- 
pier than he had been for years — Dinah burst forth into 
a storm of preparation. Pine knots and kindling wood 
were collected in armsful. From morning till night 
great sheets of flame roared up the chimney and flashed 
into the cool October air, melting away in clouds of 
curling smoke. Kettles of scalding water covered the 
windows with drops of steam ; a basket of moist feathers 


THE REUNION. 


475 


stood by the door ; and in front of the huge fire two fine 
turkeys and a regiment of smaller birds whirled and 
browned on the twine strings which suspended them 
from a beam in the ceiling, dropping streams of luscious 
gravy into an encampment of dripping pans and tin 
basins that formed a half moon on the hearth. 

“ Now mind you tend ’em faithful,” said Dinah to Liz ; 
“ keep the big spoon a-goin’ on them turkeys ; dip up 
the gravy and give ’em back as good as dey send — ’tend 
to yer duty, and they’ll be scrumptuous eatin’, now I tells 
yer ; and mind keep der door shut close. I don’t want 
de folks ter know what’s goin on till de ’past am spread, 
and thanksgivin’ on de table.” 

Liz promised, and went down on her knees behind the 
largest turkey, bathing him with his own gravy till the 
scent was carried off in luscious gushes up the chimney. 

“ Them ’um !” cried Dinah, in great glee, “ nebber mind 
de tire. Lib ; here am a turkey’s wing to hold ’tween yer 
and it — ’sides, heat don’t tan a nigger, nohow. Jes keep 
it a gwoin while I run in and set de table. Bless de Lord, 
what am dat ?” 

Liz sprang from her hot place by the fire and ran to the 
door, fanning herself with the turkey’s wing. 

“ Oh, ki ! ki ! if it isn’t a city gemman in a buggy, 
and Squire Church’s boss with a lady, and~golly, but I’ll 
run tell Miss Gillian !” 

“No, yer wont!” cried Dinah, seizing the girl in her 
first leap. “ Dem am sacrum t’ings, Liz, sich as young 
niggers mustn’t hab nothin’ to do wid. It’s her beau. 
I’ll compare Miss Gillian for de ferlicitation as am before 
her ; ’tend ter yer turkeys, chile— ’tend ter yer turkeys !” 

Dinah was too late. Gillian and Martha were just 
coming in from the clearing with a quantity of golden rod 


476 


THE REUNION. 


and wild asters, which they had been gathering for Mr. 
Bentley’s room. The woods were now all a-blaze with 
gorgeous October foliage : so they had added some of the 
most richly-tinted leaves to the late blossoms, and Martha 
•held a quantity of wild grapes gkathered up in her apron. 

Gillian dropped the flowers and uttered a cry of delight 
as she saw Woodworth spring from the buggy, lift the 
lady out and resign her to the care of Daniel Hart — all as 
it seemed in an. instant. The ne^t, he was coming to- 
ward her, so bright, so joyous in his eager haste, that she 
almost ran to meet him. As their hands clasped and their 
happy smiles mingled, Martha stole away and entered the 
cabin. There she found Daniel Hart on his knees, trem- 
bling from head to foot with a great burst of emotion. 
His face was buried in his broad hands, and a prayer 
which was almost a shout of joy broke from him — 

“ Oh, my God, how can I be thankful enough ? It is 
her, it is her 1” 

“ Father, father, what is the matter ? What has hap- 
pened ?” said Martha, bending over the old man. 

Daniel Hart lifted his head. His face quivered under 
a rain of tears. The voice burst almost in a shout from 
his lips. 

“Oh, girl, it is my sister Sarah I it is my sister Sarah I 
She was lost and is found ; she was dead and is alive 
again.” 

It was true. Julia Ransom — never to be called by that 
name again — had entered the room where her husband 
was sitting alone. His journey from The Bend had 
wearied him a little, and he lay back in his chair with 
closed eyes. She stole toward him with the breath checked 
on her lips — her face bright and glorified with joy, her step 
noiseless. He heard the flutter of her garments, but the 


THE REUNION. 


477 


window was open, and he thought, in his half-sleep, that 
it was a gush of air stirring the ripe autumnal foliage of 
a tree that sheltered the house. She was close by him ; 
her head drooped like a flower weighed down by its own 
perfume. Her lips fell to his, mingling sighs with his 
breath. The touch was light as the flutter of a rose-leaf ; 
but it sent a thrill through his dreams, and he started up, 
looking eagerly around. 

She was before him, her eyes full of tears, looking into 
his — her hands clasped as if to beg pardon for the breath 
she had left on his lips. The light was dim, thus mellow- 
ing the traces of age. It was the Sarah. Hart he had 
loved — the wife he had abandoned — the mother of Gillian. 

He opened his arms, and held them forth. 

“ Sarah I my wife 1” 

His voice thrilled the very air of the room ; it brought 
her within the clasp of his arms, close, close to his heart. 
Twenty years of sorrow — what was it, balanced by a 
moment like that 

They sat together in the little room, almost silent ; but 
now and then a broken word explained a little of the past. 

“And you can forgive my suspicion — my stubborn 
cruelty V' he said. 

“No, no. The evidence was so strong — my pride so 
uncontrollable : the fault rested there, my husband. But 
I had taken an oath, before my God, never to betray 
Hetty^s secret — to guard the good name of our family with 
my life. But for this compact I should have told you 
all.” 

“ Oh, Sarah, the truth was late in coming !” 

She took his hand between both hers, and kissed it, half 
timidly ; for a touch of her old pride made her expect, 


478 


THE REUNION. 


rather than offer demonstrations of the deep, deep love 
that rose in her heart. 

That moment the door opened, and Gillian appeared, 
searching for her father. She saw the lady by his side, 
and came eagerly forward. Woodworth had told her 
’ nothing — deeming the secret too sacred for any but a 
parent’s lips. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Ransom !” 

“ Gillian, it is your mother.” 

The young girl stood for a moment, mute as stone ; 
then her color came, her heart heaved, and the joyful 
weeping of those noble women filled the room. 

“ My mother — how sweetly the word sounds !” said 
>^illian. “ Oh, howr long we have thought you dead, my 
mother 1” 

“ It was another's death of which I took advantage. 
An American woman died at Naples just before I left that 
city. She was an unfortunate creature who had strayed 
away from her position in life and of a broken heart. 
By design my name got mingled with hers. They laid 
her in the Campo Sante, and there my old life closed. I 
made for myself a new destiny and a new name.” 

“An honored name,” said Bentley, smiling; “it is 
almost a sacrifice to give it up. I never dreamed that 
you possessed such talent, Sarah. 

“ Oh, I began to write when the trouble came on my 
sister. It was by that means I supported her unhappy 
child ; but it was in a small way, through papers and ! 
magazines. It was not till I was left alone that the i 
blessing of hard work came upon me ; but for that I must | 
have died. In becoming an author I grew strong to \ 
suffer, and patient to wait.” 


THE REUNION. 479 

*‘But your sister, poor thing I her’s is a hard destiny ; 
how will she hear of her son’s death ?” said Bentley. 

A shade of sadness came over them all. Sarah Bent- 
ley’s eyes filled with tears. 

“ It will not wound her,” she said, in a voice low with 
gentle sadness ; “my sister Hetty is dead.” 

Before the October foliage lost any of its gorgeous rich- 
ness, two weddings were celebrated in that double log 
cabin, and a right pleasant time the neighbors had on the 
occasion. Those who had seen Gillian doing the honors 
of her father’s house in New York might have been a 
little surprised at the fashion of her marriage, and the 
guests that honored it. There was JUidge Church, from 
The Bend, the blacksmith and his wife, Johnson, the 
constable, and many another great-hearted western man 
and woman, who had stood by Daniel Hart in his trouble, 
and believed in him thoroughly, spite of the falsehood 
that surrounded man, woman, or child, who 

had given the good man a kind word in that time of 
trial was forgotten. For many a year after, those people 
told with pride of the splendid wedding they had at- 
i tended in that double cabin, where the brides were 
I dressed in white muslin like any of their daughters, 

1 though Mr. Bentley was worth his millions on millions, 
and might have paved the cabin fioor with gold, if he 
had cared to do it. 

This double marriage took place in the morning, and be- 
fore noon all the inmates of the cabin were on their route 
to New York and Rockland county. Just as the party 
were about to leave the house, Mr. Bentley and Daniel 
Hart took the blacksmith on one side, and when they 
came among the guests again the good man held a broad 


480 


THE REUNION. 


sheet of paper, with several seals attached, against 
the signatures of Daniel Hart and Mr. Bentley. It was a 
deed of the log cabin, and all the land that surrounded it. 

♦ * 5fe ♦ * 

Again the fashionable world was in commotion. Such 
windfalls of gossip seldom are provided by one family 
in so short a time. Young Hurst, the claimant of Mr. 
Bentley’s property, had died suddenly, and Mr. Bent- 
ley had come into possession again. His daughter Gil- 
lian was married to Mr. Woodworth, and cards of invi- 
tation were out for a grand wedding reception. More than 
all this, Mr. Bentley had been for some time privately 
married to his daughter’s friend, Mrs. Ransom, the great 
authoress, who wa? now the acknowledged wife and mis- 
tress of his home. Then it was rumored that Martha 
Hart, the pretty cousin who had waltzed with such spirit 
on the night of the ball, was married to a young farmer in 
Rockland county, and had settled d^wn on her father’s 
old homestead. 

All these rumors must be true ; for', the world said, 
they came from a good source — an old colored woman 
who had been in the family for years — the woman with 
that gorgeous turban, who had insisted upon regulating 
the whole household on the night of the ball. Surely no 
one could forget her, or doubt that she knew all about it. 




THE END 



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Christmas Stories, Cloth, 2.00 

Dickens’ New Stories, 2.00 

A Tale of Two Cities, 2.00 

American Notes and 
Pic-Nlc Papers, Cloth, 2.00 


Price of a set, in Black cloth, in 17 volumes $32.00 

“ “ Full Law Library style 42 OO 

“ Half calf, sprinkled edges 48.00 

“ “ Half calf, marbled edges 50.00 

“ “ Half calf, antique 60.00 

“ “ Half calf, full gilt backs, etc 60.00 


PEOPLE’S DUODECIMO EDITION. 


Pickwick Papers, Cloth, $1.75 

Nicholas Nickleby,... Cloth, 1.76 
Great Expectations,. ..Cloth, 1.76 
Lamplighter’s Stoi-y,.. Cloth, 1.76 

David Coppei’tield, Cloth, 1.76 

Oliver Twist, ....Cloth, 1.76 

Bleak House, Cloth, 1.76 

A Tale of Two Cities, 1.76 

Dickens’ New Stories, 1.50 


Little Dorrit, Cloth 1.75 

Dombey and Son, Cloth, 1.75 

Christmas Stories Cloth, 1.75 

Sketches by “ Box, ’’....Cloth, 1.75 

Barnaby Rudge, Cloth, 1.75 

Martin Chuxxlewlt,... Cloth, 1.75 
Old Curiosity Shop,... .Cloth, 1.75 

Dickens’ Short Stories, 1.50 

Message from the Sea, 1.50 


Price of a set, in Black cloth, in 17 volumes $29.00 

“ “ Full Law Library stylp 35.00 

“ “ Half calf, sprinkled edges 42.0C 

“ “ Half calf, marbled edges 44 00 

“ “ Half calf, antique 50.00 

“ “ Half calf, full gilt backs, etc 60.0(1 

“ “ Full calf, antique 60.00 

“ “ Full calf, gilt edges, backs, etc 60.0C 


ILLUSTRATED DUODECIMO EDITION. 


Pickwick Papers, Cloth, $3.00 

Tale of Two Cities,.... Cloth, 3.00 
Nicholas Nickleby,... .Cloth, 3.00 

David Copperfield, Cloth, 3.00 

Oliver Twist, Cloth, 3.00 

Christmas Stories, Cloth, 3.00 

Bleak House, Cloth, 3.00 


Sketches by “ Box, ’’...Cloth, 3. OK} 

Barnaby Rudge, Cloth, 3 00 

Martin Chuxxlewit, ...Cloth, 3 OC 
Old Curiosity Shop,. ..Cloth, 3.0P 

Little Dorrit Cloth, 3.00 

Dombey and Son Cloth, 3 00 


Each of the above are complete in two volumes, illustrated. 


Great Expectations,. ..Cloth, 1.75 | Dickens’ New Stories, 1.7f 

Lamplighter’s Story, 1.75 i Message from the Sea, 1.71 

Price, of a set, in Thirty volumes, bound in Black cloth, gilt backs $45.06 

‘‘ “ Full Law Library style- .W.Ot 

“ “ Half calf, antique 90.00 

“ “ Half calf, full gilt back 90.00 

“ “ Full calf, antique 100.00 

" “ Full calf, gilt edges, backs, etc 100.00 


4 T. B. PETEPvSO^^ & BPOTHEKS’ PEELICATIONS. 


CHARL.ES DICKENS’ WORKS. 


CHEAP EDITION, PAPER COVER. 

1 Ais editioa is published complete in Twenty-two large octavo volumes, in paper 
cover, as follows. Price Fifty cents a volume. 


Pick'ivlck Papers. 

Great Expectations. 

A Tale of Two Cities. 
New Years’ Stories. 
Baruaby Rudg^e. 

Old Curiosity Sliop. 
Little Dorr it. 

Daxid Copperfleld. 
Sketolies l>y Box.” 
Dickens’ New Stories. 
American Notes. 


Oliver Twdst. 

Lampligkter’s Story. 
Dombey and Son. 
Nicliolas Nickleby. 
Holiday Stories. 

Martin Clxuzzlewlt. 
Bleak House. 

Dickens’ Skort Stories. 
Message from tlie Sea. 
Cliristmas Stories. 
Pic-Nic Papers. 


LIBRARY OCTAVO EDITION. IN SEVEN VOLUMES. 

This edition is in SEVEN very large octavo volumes, with a Portrait on steel of 
Charles Dickens, and bound in the following various styles. 


Price of a set, in Black Cloth, in seven volumes, $14.00 

“ “ Scarlet cloth, extra, 16.00 

“ “ Law Library style, 17.50 

“ “ Half calf, sprinkled edges 20.00 

•* ‘f Half calf, marbled edges, 21.00 

•* ** Half calf, antique, 25.00 

“ Half calf, full gilt backs, etc., 25.00 


CHARLES LEVER’S WORKS. 

Pine Edition, bound separately. 


Charles O’Malley, cloth, $1.50 

Harry Lorrequer, cloth, 1.50 

Jack Hinton, cloth, 1.50 

Davenport Dunn, cloth, 1.50 

Tom Burke of Ours, cloth^. 1.50 


Arthur O’Leary, cloth 1-50 

Con Cregan, cloth, 1.50 

Knight of Gwynne, cloth,.. 1.50 

Valentine Vox, cloth 1.50 

Ten Thousand a Year,.... 1.50 


CHARLES LEVER’S NOVELS. 


AU neatly done up in paper covers. 


Charles O’Malley,.... Price 50 cts, 

Harry Lorrequer, 50 “ 

Horace Templeton, 50 “ 

Tom Burke of Ours, 50 “ 

Jack Hinton, the Guards- 
man, 50 “ 


Arthur O’Leary...... 60 cts. 

The Knight of Gwynne, 50 “ 

Kate O’Donoghne, 50 “ 

Con Cregau, the Irish 
Gil Bias, 50 '* 

Davenport Dunn, 50 “ 


LIBRARY EDITION. 

THIS EDITION is complete in FIVE large octavo volumes, containing Charles 
O’Malley, Harry Lorrequer, Horace Templeton, Tom Burke of Ours, Arthur O’Leary, 
Jack Hinton the Guardsman, The Knight of Owynne, Kate O’Donoghue, etc., hand- 
somely printed, and bound in various styles, as follows : 


Price of a set in Black cloth, $7..'50 

“ “ Scarlet cloth, 8.00 

“ “ Law Library sheep, 8.75 

“ “ Half Calf, sprinkled edges, 12.00 

“ Half Calf, marbled edges, 12.50 

“ Half Calf, antique, 15.00 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 5 


WIIiKIE COLiIilNS’ GREAT WORKS. 


Tlie Dead. Secret. Oae voliime, 
octavo, paper cover. Price fifty cents ; 
or bound in one voL, cloth, for 76 cts, ; 
or a fine 12mo. edition, in two vols., 
paper cover, in large type, for One 
Dollar, or in one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 

Tlie Crossed Patli; or, Basil. 

Complete in two volumes, paper cover. 
Price One Dollar ; or bound in one vol- 
ume, cloth, for $1.60. 

Tlie Stolen Mask* Price 25 cents. 


Hide and Seek* One vol., octavo, 
paper cover. Price fifty cents ; or 
bound in one vol., cloth, for 75 cents. 

After Dark* One vol., octavo, paper 
cover. Price fifty cents ; or bound in 
one vol., cloth, for 75 cents. 

Siglits A-foot ; or Travels Beyond 
Railways. One volume, octavo, paper 
cover. Price 50 cents. 

The Yellow Mask* Price 25 cts. 

Sister Hose* Price 25 cents. 


COOK 

Petersons^ New Cook Book; 

or Useful Receipts for the Housewife 
and the Uninitiated. Pull of valuable 
receipts, all original and never before 
published, all of which will be found 
to be very valuable and of daily use. 
One vol., bound. Price $1.50. 

Miss Liesiie’s New Cookery 

Book. Being her last new hook. 
One volume, bound. Price $1.50. 


BOOKS* 

Widdiiield’s New CookBook j 

or, Practical Receipts for the House- 
wife. Cloth. Price $1 .25. 

Mrs* Hale’s New Cook Book* 

By Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. One volume, 
bound. Price $1.25. 

Miss Leslie’s New Receipts 
for Cooking. Complete in one 
volume, bound. Price $1.25. 


MRS. HALE’S RECEIPTS* 

Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for tlie Million* Containing 4545 Receipts, 
By Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. One vol., 800 pages, strongly bound. Price, $1.50, 

MISS LESLIE’S BEHAVIOUR BOOK* 

Miss Leslie’s Beliaviovir Book* A complete Guide and Manual for 
Ladies. Price $1,50. 

FRANC ATELLI’S FRENCH COOK. 

Prancatelli’s Celebrated French Cook Book* The Modern 
Cook* A Practical Guide to the Culinary Art, in all its branches; comprising, 
in addition to English Cookery, the most approved and recherche systems of 
French, Italian, and German Cookery; adapted as well for the largest establish- 
ments, as for the use of private families. By CHARLES ELME FRANCA- 
TELLI, pupil to the celebrated Careme, and late Mattre-d’Hotel and Chief Cook 
to her Majesty, the Queen of England. With Sixty-Two Illustrations of various 
dishes. Reprinted from the 'last London Edition, carefully revised and consider- 
ably enlarged. Complete in one large octavo volume of Six Hundred pages, 
strongly bound, and printed on the finest double super-calendered paper. Price 
Three Dollars a copy. 

J. A. MAITLAND’S GREAT WORKS. 


The Three Cousins* By J. A. 
Maitland. Two vols., paper. Price 
$1.00; or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

The Watchman. Complete in two 
large vols., paper cover. Price $1.00; 
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

The AVanderer* Complete in two 
volumes, paper cover. Price $1.00; 
or in one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 


The Diary of an Old Doctor* 

Two vols., paper cover. Price $1.00; 
or bound in cloth for $1.50. 

The Lawyer’s Story. Two vol- 
umes, paper cover. Price $1.00; of 
bound in cloth for $1.60, 

Sartaroe. A Tale of Norway* 

Two vols., paper cover. Price $1.00; 
or in cloth for $1.50. 


MRS. DANIELS’ GREAT WORKS* 


Marrying for Money* One vol., 
octavo, paper cover. Price fifty cents ; 
oroue vol., cloth, 75 ceuts. 


The Poor Cousin* Price 50 ceuts 

Kate Walsingham* Price 5r 
cents. 


6 T. B. PETEESOIJ & EEOIHEES’ PUBLICATIONS 


ALiEXAUDER UUMAS’ WORKS. 


Count of Monte - Cristo. By 

Alexander Dumas. Beautifully illus- 
trated. One volume, cloth, $1.50 ; or 
in two volumes, paper cover, for $1.00, 

Tlie Conscript* Two vols., paper 
cover. Price One Dollar ; or in one 
volume, cloth, for $1.60, 

amille; or tlie Fate of a 
Coquette* Only correct Translation 
from the Original French. Two vol- 
umes, paper, price $1.00 ; cloth, $1.60. 

Tlie Tliree Guardsmen* Price 
75 cents, in paper cover, or a finer 
edition in cloth, for $1.50. 

T wenty Years After* A Sequel 
to the “Three Guardsmen.” Price 75 
cents, in paper cover, or a finer edition, 
in one volume, cloth, for $1.60. 

Bragelonne; tlie Son of Atlios: 

being the continuation of “Twenty 
Years After. ” Price 75 cents, in paper, 
or a finer edition, in cloth, for $1.50. 
Tlie Iron Mask* Being the con- 
tinuation of the “Three Guardsmen.” 
Two vols., paper cover. Price One 
Dollar; or in oue vol., cloth, $1.50. 

Louise La Valliere; or, The 

Second Series and end of the “Iron 
Mask.” Two volumes, paper cover. 
Price $1.00, or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

Tlie Memoirs of a Pliysieian* 

Beautifully Illustrated. Two vols., 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or 
bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.50. 

Tlie Q,ueen’s Necklace* A Se- 
quel to the “ Memoirs of a Physician.” 
Two vols., paper cover. Price $1.00 ; 
or in one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 

Six Years Later; or, Taking of 
the Bastile. A Continuation of “The 
Queen’s Necklace.” Two vols., paper 
cover. Price Oue Dollar; or in one 
vol., cloth, for $1.50. 

Countess of Cliarny; or, The 
Fall of the French Monarchy. Sequel 
tA> Six Years Later. Two vols., paper 
cover. Price One Dollar; or in one 
volume, cloth, for $1.50. 


Aiidree de Taverney. A Sequel 
to and continuation of the Countess of 
Charny. Two volumes, paper. Price 
$1.00 ; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 

Tke Ckevalier* A Sequel to, and 
final end of “ Andree De Taverney.” 
One vol. Price 75 cents, 

Tlie Adventures of a Mar- 
quis* Two vols., paper cover. Price 
1,00; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 

Tlie Forty-Five Guardsmen* 

Price 75 cents, or a finer edition in one 
volume, cloth. Price $1.50. 

Tlie Iron Hand. Price 75 cents, 
in paper cover, or a finer edition in 
one volume, cloth, for $1.50, 

Diana of Merldor* Two volumes, 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; cr in 
one vol., cloth, for $1.50. ' 

Fdmond Dantes* Being a Sequel 
to Dumas’ celebrated novel of the 
“ Count of Monte-Cristo. ” Price 50 cts. 

Annette ; or^ Tlie Lady of tlie 
Pearls* A Companion to “Camille.” 
Price 60 cents. 

Tke Fallen Angel* A Story of 
Love and Life in Paris. One volume. 
Price 50 cents. 

Tke Man witk Five Wives. 

Complete in one volume. Price 60 cts. 

George ; or, Tke Planter of 
tke Isle of France* One vol- 
ume. Price Fifty cents, 

Genevieve ; or, The Chevalier of 
Maison Rouge. One volume. Illus- 
trated. Price 50 cents. 

Tke Mokicans of Paris* 50 cts. 
Sketckes in France* 50 cents. 
Isakel of Bavaria* Price 50 cts. 

Felina de Ckamkiire ; or. The 

Female Fiend. Price 50 cents. 

Tke Hoi'rors of Paris* 50 cents. 

Tke Twin Lieutenants* Oue 

vol. Price 50 cts. 

Tli^ Corsican Brotkers* 25 cts 


PRANK E. SMEDLEY’S WORKS* 


Harry Coverdale’s Courtskip 
and Marriage* Two vols., paper. 
Price $1.00; or cloth, $1.50. 

Lorrimer Littlegood* By author 
of “Frank Fairleigh.’’ Two vols., 
paper. Price$1.00; or cloth, $1.50. 

Prank Palrleigk> One volume, 
cloth, $1.50 ; or cheap edition in paper 
cover, for 75 cents 


Lewis Arundel* One vol., cloth. 
Price $1.50 ; or cheap edition in paper 
cover, for 75 cents. 

Fortunes and Misfortunes of 
Harry Racket Scapegrace* 
Cloth. Price $1.50; or cheap edition 
in paper cover, for 50 ceuts. 

j Tom Racquet ; and His Three 
I Maiden Aunts. Illustrated. 50ceut»* 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PtIELICATIONS. 


i 


MISS BREMER’S WEW WORKS. 


Tlie Fatlier and Daughter. 

By Fredrika Bremer. Two vols. paper. 
Price $1.00 ; or cloth, $1.50. 

The Four Sisters. Two vols., 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or in 
one volume, cloth, for $1.50. 


The Neighbors. Two vols,, paper 
cover. Price One Dollar; or in one 
volume, cloth, for $1.50. 

The Home. Two volumes, paper 
cover. Price One Dollar; or in one 
volume, cloth, for $1.50. 


Life iu the Old'World^ or. Two Tears in Switzerland and Italy. Com- 
plete in two large duodecimo volumes, of near 1000 pages. Price $3.00. 


GREEN’S WORKS ON GAMBLING. 


Gambling Exposed. By J. H. 

Green, the Reformed Gambler, Two 
vols., paper (fover. Price $1.00 ; or in 
one volume, cloth, gilt, for $1.50. 

The Gambler’s Life. Two vols., 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or in 
one vol., cloth, gilt, for $1.50. 


The Secret Band of Brothers. 

Two volumes, paper coveT*. Price Cue 
Dollar ; or bound in one volume, cloth, 
for $1.50. 

The Reformed Gambler. Two 

vols., paper. Price One Dollar ; or in 
one vol., cloth, for $1,50. 


MRS. GREY’S NEW BOOKS. 


Little Beauty. Two vols,, paper ! Cousin Harry. Two vols., paper 
cover. Price One Dollar; or in one j cover. Price One Dollar; or in one 
volume, cloth, for $1.50. ! volume, cloth, for $1.50. 

The Flirt. One vol. octavo, paper cover, 50 cents; or in cloth, for 75 cents. 


MRS* GREY’S POPULAR NOVELS. 

Price Twenty-Five Oeifits each. 


Gi) sy’s Daughter* 

Lena Cameron* 

Belle of the Family. 

Sybil Lennard. 

Duke and Cousin* 

The Little Wife. 

Passion & Principle. 50 cents. 

G. P. R. JAMES’ 

The Cavalier. An Historical Ro- 
mance. With a steel portrait of the 
author. Two .vols., paper cover. Price 
$1.00; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 

The Man in Black. Price 50 cts. 

Arrah Neil. Price 50 cents. 


The Manoeuvring Mother. 
The Young Primo Donna 
Alice Seymour. 
Baronet’s Daughters. 
Old Dower House* 
Hyacinthe. 

Mary Seaham. PriCe 50 cents. 

NEW BOOKS. 

Lord Montagu’s Page. Two 

volumes, paper cover. Price One Dol- 
lar ; or iu one vol., cl j(h, $1.50, 

Mary of Burgundy. Price A9 cts. 

Eva St. Clair I and other Tales 
Price 25 oeuts. 


MISS ELLEN PICKERING’S WORKS. 

Price Thirty-FAgU Cents each. 


Who Shall he Heir 1 
Merchant’s Daughter* 
The Secret Foe* 

The Expectant. 
The Fright. 
Quiet Husband. 


Ellen Wai*eham. 

Nan Darrel. 

Prince and Pedlar. 

The Squire. 

The Grumbler. 50 cents 
Orphan Niece. 50 cents. 


COINS OF THE WORLD. 

Petersons’ Complete Coin Book, containing Perfect Fac-Simllos of all 
the various Gold, Silver, and other Metallic Coins, tbrougliout the World, near 
Two Thousand in all, being the most coniplete Coin Book in the World, \vitU 
the United States Mint Value of each Coin under it. Price *1.00 


I 


8 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


MISS PARDOE’S WORKS. 


The Jealous Wife. By Miss Par- 
doe. Complete in one large octavo 
volume. Price Fifty cents. 

Tlie W^ife’s Trials. By Miss Par- 
doe. Complete in one large octavo 
volume. Price Fifty cents. 

THe Rival Beauties. By Miss 
Pardoe. Complete in one large octavo 
volume. Price Fifty cents. 

Romauce of tlie Harem. By 
Miss Pardoe. Complete in one large 
octavo volume. Price Fifty cents. 


Confessions of a Pretty Wo- 
man. By Miss Pardoe. Complete 
in one large octavo volume. Price 
Fifty cents. 

Miss Pardoe’s Complete 
Works. This comprises the whole 
of the above Five works, and are hound 
in cloth, gilt, in one large octavo vol- 
ume. Price $2.50. 

The A dopted Heir. By Miss Par- 
doe. Two vols., paper. Price $1.00 ; 
or in one voL, cloth, for $1.60. 


W. H. MAXWEIili’S WORKS. 


Stories of Waterloo. One of the 

best books in the English language. 
One vol. Price Fifty cents. 


Brian 0’L»ynn ; or, Luck is Every- 
thing. Price 60 cents. 

W^ild Sports in West. 60 cents, 


SAMUEIi C. WARREN’S BOOKS 


Ten Thousand a Year. Com- 
plete in two volumes, paper cover. 
Price One Dollar ; or a finer edition, 
in one volume, cloth, for $1.60. 


Diary of a Medical Student. 

By author of “Ten Thousand a Year.’* 
Complete in one octavo volume, paper 
cover. Price 60 cents. 


EMERSON BENNETT’S WORKS. 


The Border Rover. Fine edition 
bound in cloth, for $1.50; or Railroad 
Edition for One Dollar. 

Clara Moreland. Fine edition 
bound in cloth, for $1.50; or Railroad 
Edition for One Dollar. 

The Forged W^ill. Fine edition 
boundin cloth, for $1.50; or Railroad 
Edition for One Dollar. 

Ellen Norhury. Fine edition 
bound in cloth, for $1.60; or Railroad 
Edition for One Dollar. 


Bride of the Wilderness. Fine 
edition bound in cloth, for $1.60; or 
Railroad Edition for $1.00. 

Kate Clarendon. Fine edition 
bound iu cloth, for $1.50; or Rail- 
road Edition for One Dollar. 

Viola. Fine edition, cloth, for $1.60 ; 
or Railroad Edition for One DoUar. 

Heiress of Bellefonte and 
Walde-Warren. Price 50 cents. 

Pioneer’s Daughter; and the 
‘ lluhnown Countess. 50 cents. 


DOESTICKS’ BOOKS 


Doesticks’ lietters. Complete in 
two vols., paper cover. Price One Dol- 
lar ; or in one vol., cloth, $1.60. 

Plu-ri-hus-tah. Complete in two 
vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; 
or in one vol., cloth, $1/60. 

Nothing to Say 


The Elephant Club. Complete 
in two vols., paper cover. Price$1.00; 
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

Witclies of New York, Complete 
in two vols., paper cover. Price $1.00 ; 
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

Illustrated. Price 50 cents. 


DR. HOhlilCK’S WORKS. 


Dr. Hollick’s Anatomy and 
Physiology ; with a large Dis- 
sected Plate of the Human Figure. 
Price $1.26, bound. 


Dr. Hollick’s Family Phy- 
sician. A Pocket-Guide for Every- 
body. Complete in erne volume, pa- 
per cover. Price 25 cents. 


SMOIiliETT’S AND FlELiDINGr’S GREAT WORKS. 


Peregrine Pickle; and His Ad- 
ventures. Two vbls., octavo. $1.00. 

ilum|phre^ Clinker. 50 cents. 


Tom Jones. Two volumes. $1.00. 
Amelia. One volume. Fifty cents. 
Joseph Andrews. Fifty cenU 


T. B. PETEESON & BSOTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 9 


MIIilTARY MOVEIiS. 

By licver, Dnmas and otUer Antliors. 

With Illuminated Military Covers, in Colors. 

Published and for sale at wholesale, by the single copy, or by the dozen, hundred, 

or thousand, at very low rates. 


Their Names are as Follows : 


Charles O’Malley, Price 60 

•Jack Hinton, the Guardsman.. 60 

The Knight of Gwynne 60 

Harry liorreqner 50 

Tom Burke of Onrs 50 

Arthur O’Lieary 50 

Con Cregan’s Adventures .60 

Kate O’Houoghue 50 

Horace Templeton 50 

Davenport Dunn 50 

Following the Di'um 50 

The Conscript. 2 vols., each 60 


Valentine Vox Price 50 

Twin liieutenants 60 

Stories of Waterloo 60 

The Soldier's Wife .60 

Guei'illa Chief 60 

The Three Guardsmen 75 

Twenty Years After 7.6 

Bragelonne, the Son of Athos... 75 

Wallace, Hero of Scotland 7.6 

Porty-Ave Guardsmen 75 

The Q,uaker Soldier, Two 
volumes, each 50 


Sutlers in the Army, Booksellers, Pedlars and Canvassers, can sell thousands 
of the abov^works, all of which are published with Illuminated Military covers 
n colors, making them the most attractive and saleable books ever printed. 


REYNOIiDS’ GREAT WORKS 


Mysteries of the Court of 

koudou. Complete in one large 
volume, bound in cloth, for $1.50 ; or 
in two volumes, paper cover, price 
One Dollar. 

Rose Foster ; or, “ The Second Series 
of the Mysteries of the Court of Lon- 
don. ” 1 voL, cloth. $2.00 ; or in three 
V')l limes, paper cover, price $1.50. 
Caroline of Brunswick ; or, the 
“Third Series of the Mysteries of the 
Court of London.” Complete in one 
large vol., bound in cloth, for $1..60 ;; 
or in two vols., paper cover, for $1.00. 

Venetia Trelawney; being the 
“Fourth Series, or final conclusion of 
the My.steries of the Court of London.” 
Complete in one volume, in cloth, for 
$1.50 ; or in two volumes, paper cover. 
Price One Dollar. 

Lord Saxondale 5 or, The Court of 
Queen Victoria. Complete in oue large 
vol., cloth, for $1..60; or in two vols., 
paper cover, price Oue Dollar. 

Count Christoval. The “Sequel 
to Lord Saxondale.” Complete in one 
vnl., bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in I 
two vols., paper cover, price $1.00. 
The Necromancer. A Romance 
of the Times of Henry the Eighth. One 
vol., hound in cloth, for $]..60; or in 
two vtds., paper cover, price $1.00. 


Rosa kambert; or. The Memoirs 
of an Unfortunate Woman. One vol., 
bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in two 
volumes, paper cover, price $1.00. 

Mary Price ; or. The Adventures of 
a Servant-Maid. Complete in one vol., 
bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in two 
vols., paper cover, price $i.00. 

Eustace Q^uentin. A “Sequel to 
Mary Price.” Complete in oue large 
vol., bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in 
two volumes, paper cover, price $1.00. 

1 Joseph Wilmot 5 or. The Memoirs 
of a Man-Servant. Complete in oue 
vol., bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in 
two volumes, paper cover, price $1.00. 

The Banker’s Daughter. A 
Sequel to “ Joseph Wilmot.” Complete 
in one vol., cloth, for $1.50 ; or in two 

' volumes, paper cover, price $1.00, 

Kenneth. A Romance of the High- 
lands. Complete in oue large volume, 
bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in two 
volumes, paper cover, price $1.00. 

The Rye-House Plot; or, Ruth, 
the Conspirator’s Daughter. One vol , 
bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in two 
vols., paper cover, price Oue Dollar. 

Mary Sttiart, Q,ueen of .Scots. 
Complete in oue large 8vo. vol 50 cts. 

May Middleton; or. The History 
of a Fortune. Price 50 centa. 


10 T. B. PSTE2SON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


REYNOLDS^ GREAT WORKS. 


Tlie Opera Oaiicer; or, The 

Mysteries of Loudon Life. Complete 
in one vol. Price 50 cents. 

TKe Ruined Game.ster. With 
Illustrations. Complete in one large 
octavo vol. Price Fifty cents. 

Wallace: tlie Hero of Scot- 
land. Illustrated with Thirty-eight 
plates. Price 75 cents. 

Tlie Clikld of "Waterloo; or, 

The Horrors of the Battle Field. Com- 
plete in one vol. Price 50 cents. 

TJie Countess and tlxe Pa^e. 

Complete in one large vol. Price 50 cts. 

Ciprina; or, Tlie Secrets of a 
Picture Gallery. Complete in 
one vol. Price 50 cents. 

Robert Bruce : tlie Hero King^ 
of Scotland, with his Portrait. 
One vol. Price 50 cents. 

Isabella Vincent; or, The Two 
Orphans. One vol., paper cover. 50 cts. 

Vivian Bertram; or, A Wife’s 
Honor. A Sequel to “Isabella Vin- 
cent.” One vol. Price 50 cents. 

Tbe Countess of Liascelles. 

The Continuation to “Vivian Ber- 
tram.” One vol. Price 60 cents. 


Duke of Marcbmont. Being th# 
Conclusion of “The Countess of Las^ 
celles. ’ ’ Price Fifty cents. 

Gipsy Chief. Beautifully Illustrated 
Complete in one large Svo.vol. 75 cts. 

Pickwick Abroad. A Companion 
to the “Pickwick Papers,” by “Boz.’ 
One vol. Price 50 cents. 

^ueen Joanna; or, the Mys- 
teries of the Court of Na- 
ples. Price 50 cents. 

The Doves of the Harem. 50 cts. 

The Discai'ded ^neen. One vol 

50 cents. 

Ellen Percy ; or, Memoirs of an Act- 
ress. Price 50 cts. 

Massacre of Glencoe. 60 cents. 

Ag;nes Evelyn; or, Beauty and 
Pleasure. 50 cents. 

The Parricide. Beautifully Illus- 
trated. 50 cents. 

Life in Paris. Handsomely Illus- 
trated. 50 cents. 

The Soldier’s Wife. Illustrated 
50 cents. 

Clifford and the Actress. 50 cts. 

Edgar Monti'ose. One vol. 25 cts 


T. S. ARTHUR’S BEST WORKS 

PHce Twenty-Five Cents each. 


The Dady at Home. 

Yeai* after Marriage. 
Cecilia Howard. 
Orphan Children. 

'Dove in High Dife. 

Debtor’s Daughter^ 
Agnes; or, The Possessedi 
Dove in a Cottage. 
Mary Moreton. 

Dizxte Glenn 

vol., cloth, gilt. 


The Divorced Wife. 

The Two Brides. 

Ducy Sandford. 

The B.anker’s. Wife. 

The Two Merchants# 
Insubordination. 
Trial and Triumph. 

The Iron Rule. 

Px’ide and Pmidence 


or. The Trials of a Seamstress. By T. S. Arthur. One 
Price $1.50, or in two vols., paper cover, for $1.00, 


CHARDES J. PETERSON’S WORKS 


Kate Aylesford. A Love Story. 
Two vols., paper. Price $1.00 ; or in 
one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 

The Old Stone Mansion. By 

Charles J. Peterson. Two vols., paper. 
Price $1.00; or in cloth, for $1.50. 

Cruising in the Dast War. 

By Charles J. Peterson. Complete in 
one volume. Price 50 cents. 


The Valley Parm ; or, The Auto- 
biography of an Orphan. A Companioa 
to Jane Eyre. Price 21 cents. 

Grace Dudley ; or, Arnold at Sara- 
toga. Complete in one octavo volume. 
Price 25 cents. 

Mabel; or, Darkness and Dawn. Two 
vols., paper cover. Price $1.00; or in 
cloth, $1.60. {In Press.) 


J. F. SMITH’S WORKS. 


The Usurer’s Victim ; or Tho- 
mas Balscomhe. One volume, 
octavo. Price 50 cents. 


Adelaide Waldgrave; or the 

Trials of a Governess. One volume 
octavo. Price 50 cents. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 11 


WAVERI.EY NOVELS. 

The 'Waverley Novels. By Sir Walter Scott. With a magnificent Portrait 
of Sir Walter Scott, engraved from the last Portrait for which he ever sat, at 
Abbottsford, with his Autograph under it. This edition is complete in Five large 
octavo volumes, with handsomely engraved steel Title Pages to each volume, 
the whole being neatly and handsomely bound in cloth. This is the cheapest and 
most complete and perfect edition of the Waverley Novels published in the world, 
as it contains all the Author’s last additions and corrections. Price Ten Dollars 
for a complete and entire set bound in cloth. 

CHEAP EDITION IN PAPER COVER. 

This sdition is published in Twenty-Six volumes, paper cover, price thirty-eight 
ents each, or the whole twenty-six volumes, will be sold or sent to any one, free 
of po.stage, for Eight Dollars. 

The following are their names. 

Tlie Heart of Mid Ijotlilau, 

Guy Maiiiieriug, 

Tlie Antiquary, 

Old Mortality, 

St. Roiiau’s ^Vell, 

The Bride of Liammermoor, 

Highland Widow, 

Ivanlroe, 

Roh Roy, 

Waverley, 

Tales of a Grandfather, 

Kenilworth, 

Fair Maid Perth, 

Fortunes of Nigel, 

Peveril of the Peak, 

Liockhart’s Life of Scott. Complete in one volume, cloth. Price$1.50. 


''nt Robert of Paris, 

The Pirate, 

The Abbots 
Red Gauntlet, 

The Talisman, 
Q,uentin Hurward, 

The Monastery, 

Woodstock, 

Anne of Geierstein, 

The Betrothed, 

Castle Dangerous, and Sur- 
geon’s Daughter, 

Black Dwarf and Legend of 
Montrose. 

Moredun. Price 50 cents. 


WALTER SCOTT’S PROSE AND POETICAL WORKS. 

We also publish Sir Walter Scott’s complete Prose and Poetical Works, in ten 
large octavo volume.s, bound in cloth. This edition contains every thing ever writ- 
ten by Sir Walter Scott. Price Twenty Dollars for a complete set. 


EUGENE SUE’S GREAT NOVELS. 


Illustrated Wandering Jew. 

With Eighty-seven large Illustrations. 
Complete in two vols., paper cover. 
Price One Dollar ; or in one volume, 
cloth, for $1.50. 

Mysteries of Paris ; and Gerol- 
steln, the Sequel to it. Complete 
in two volumes, paper cover. Price 
One Dollar; or in one volume, cloth, 
for $1.50. 


Martin the Foundling. Beau- 
tifully Illustrated. Two volumes, pa- 
per cover. Price One Dollar ; or in one 
vol., cloth, for $1.60. 

First Ljljrc* Price 25 cents. 

Womai^pLove. Illustrated. 25 cts. 

! The Man-of-War’s-Man. 25 cts. 

I The Female Bluebeard. 25 cts. 

Raoul De Surville. Price 25 cts. 


SIR E. L. BULWER’S NOVELS. 


Falkland. A Novel. One volume, 
octavo. Price 25 cents. 

The Roue ; or. The Hazards of Wo- 
men. Price 25 cents 


The Oxonians. A Sequel to “The 
Roue.” Price 25 cents. 

Calderon, the Courtier By 
By Sir E. L. Bulwer. Price 12 cents. 


12 T.B. PETERSON «& BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS 


HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS. 


With Original Illustrations by Barley and Others. 

Done up in Illuminated Covers. 


Beiug the most Humorous and Laughable Books ever printed in the English 

Language. 


Major Jones’ Courtship. With 
Thirteen Illustrations, from designs by 
Barley. Price 50 cents. 

Drama in Polcerville. By J. M. 
Field. With Illustrations by Barley. 
Price Fifty cents. 

Louisiana Swamp Doctor. By 

author of “ Cupping on the Sternum 
Illu.strated by Barley. Price Y .uw. 

Charcoal Sketches. By .Toseph 
C. Neal. With Illustrations. 60 cents. 

Yankee Amongst the Mer- 
maids. By W. E. Burton. With Il- 
lustrations by Barley. 50 cents. 

Misfortunes of Peter Faher. 
By Joseph C. Neal. With Illustrations 
by Barley. Price 50 cents. 

Major Jones’ Sketches of 
Travel. With Illustrations, from 
designs by Barley. Price 60 cents. 

Q,uarter Race in Kentucky. 
By W. T. Porter, Esq. With Illustra- 
tions by Barley. 50 cents. 

Sol. Smith’s Theatrical Ap- 
prenticeship. Illustrated by Bar- 
ley. Price Fifty Cents. 

Yankee Y’arns and Yankee 
Letters. By Sam Slick, alias Judge 
Haliburton. Price 50 cts. 

Life and Adventures of Col. 
Vanderhomh. By the author of 
“ Wild Western Scenes.” 50 cents. 

Big Bear of Arkansas. Edited 
by Wm. T. Porter. With Illustrations 
by Barley. Price Fifty cents. 

Major Jones’ Chronicles of 
Plneville. With Illustrations by 
Barley. Price Fifty ce^a. 

Life and Adventu^B of Per- 
cival MaheiTy. ^^J. H. Ingra- 
ham. Price Fifty cents. 

Frank Forester’s Q,uorndon 
Hounds. By H. W. Herbert. With 
Illustrations. Price 50 cents. 

Pickings from the “ Pica- 
yune.” With Illustrations by Bar- 
ley. Price Fifty cents. 

Frank Forester’s Shooting 
Bor. With Illustrations by Barley. 
Price Fifty cents. 


Peter Ploddy. By author of “ Char^ 
coal Sketches.” With Illustrations by 
Barley. Price Fifty cents. 

Western Scenes ; or. Life on 
the Prairie. Illustrated by Bar- 
ley. Price 50 cents. 

Streaks of Squatter Life. By 

author of “Major Jones’ Courtship.’ 
Illustrated by Bariey. 50 cents. 

Simon Suggs. - Adventures 
of Captain Simon Sviggs* 

lUustra ted by Barley. 50 cents. 

Stray Subjects Arrested and 
Bound Over. With Illustrations 
by Barley. Fifty cents. 

Frank Forester’s Deer Stalk- 
ers. With Illustrations. 60 cents. 

Adventures of Captain Far- 
rago. By Hon. H. H. Brackenridge. 
Illustrated. Price 50 cents. 

Widow Rugby’s Husband. 

By author of “Simon Suggs.” With 
Illustrations. Fifty cents. \ 

Major O’Regan’s Adventures, j 

By Hon. H. H. Brackenridge. With ^ 
Illustrations by Barley. Fifty cents, l 

Theatrical Journey - Woi’k 
and Anecdotal Recollec- 
tions of Sol. Smith, Esq.i 

Price 50 cents. ' 

Polly Peablossom’s Wed-, 
ding. By the author of “Major 
Jones’ Courtship.” Fifty cents. 

Frank Forester’s Warwick 
Woodlands. With beautiful Il- 
lustrations. Price 50 cents. 

New Orleans Sketch Book. 

By “Stahl.” With Illustrations by 
Barley. Price Fifty cents. 

The Love Scrapes of Fudge 
Fumble. By author of “ Arkansaw, 
Boctor. ” Price Fifty cents. 

Amerlcnn Joe Miller. With 100 
Illustrations. Price Twenty-five cents.' 
Judge Hallburton’s Yankee' 
Stories. Two vols., paper cover. 
Price $1.00 ; or cloth, $1..50. 

Humors of Falconbridge. Two 

vols., paper cover. Price One BoUar , 
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 


T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PTTBIICATIONS. 13 


GUSTAVE AIMARD’S WORKS. 


Tlie Prairie Flower. One vol., 

octavo, paper cover, price 50 cents, or 
bound in cloth for 75 cents. 

Th.e Indian Scout. One volume, 
octavo, paper cover, price fifty cents, 
or bound in cloth for 75 cts. 

Tlie Trail Hunter. One volume, 
octavo, paper cover, price fifty cents, 
or bound in cloth for 75 cts. 

All of Aimard's other i 


Tile Pirates of tlie Prairies. 

One vol., paper cover, price .50 cents 
or bound in cloth, for 75 cents. 

Tlie Trapper’s Daugliter. One 

volume, paper cover. Price 50 cents. 

Tlie Tiger Slayer. One volume, 
octavo, paper cover. Price 50 cents. 
Tile Gold Seekers. One volume, 
octavo, paper cover. Price 50 cents. 
oJcs are in press by v^. 


GEORGE SA: 

Consnelo. By George Sand. Trans- 
lated from the French, by Fayette Rob- 
inson. Complete and unabridged. One 
volume. Price Fifty cents. 

Countess of Rudolstadt. The 

Sequel to “ Cousuelo.” Translated from 
the original French. Complete and un- 
abridged edition. Price 50 cents. 

LIEBIG’S WORKS 

Agricultural Chemistry. By 

Baron Justus Liebig. Complete and 
unabi’idged. Price 50 cents. 

Animal Chemistry. Complete 
and unabridged. Price 25 cents. 

The whole of the above Five works of 
plete in one large octavo volume, bound, 
only published in the bound volume. 


ID’S WORKS. 

First and True Love. By author 
of “ Consuelo,” “ Indiana,” etc. Illus- 
trated. Price 50 cents. 

The Corsair. Price 50 cents. 

Indiana. By author of “Consuelo,” 
etc. A very bewitching and interest- 
ing work. Two vols., paper cover 
$1,00 ; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 

ON CHEMISTRY. 

Familiar Letters on Chem« 
Istry. 

Chemistry and Physics in re- 
lation to Physiology and Pathology. 

The Potato Disease. 

Professor Liebig are also published com- 

Price $2.00. The three last works are 


HUMOROUS ILLUSTRATED WORKS. 


High Life in New York. By 

Jonathan Slick. Beautifully Illustra- 
ted. Two vols., paper cover. One Dol- 
lar ; or bound in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

Sam Slick, the Clockmaker. 

By Judge Haliburtou. Illustrated. 
One volume, cloth, $1.50 ; or in two 
volumes, paper cover, for $1.00. 

Major Jones’ Courtship and 
Travels. Beautifully illustrated. 
One vol., cloth. Price $i.50. 

Major Jones’ Scenes in Geor- 
gia. Full of beautiful illustrations. 
One vol., cloth. Price $1.50. 

Simon Suggs’ Adventures 
and Travels. Illustrated. One 
volume, cloth. Price $1.50. 

Major Thorpe’s Scenes in Ar- 
kansaw : containing the whole of 
the “Quarter Race in Kentucky,” 
and “ Bob Herring, the Arkansas 
Bear Hunter,” to which is added the 
“Drama in Pokerville.” With Six- 
teen illustrations from Designs by Dar- 
key. Complete in one vol., cloth. $1.50. 


Humors of Falconbrldge. Two 

vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar * 
or in one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 

Piney Woods Tavern; oi, 
Sam Slick in Texas. Cloth, 
$1.50 ; or 2 vols., paper cover, $1.00. 

Yankee Stories. By Judge Hall- 
burton. Two vols., paper cover. Price 
$1.00 ; or bound in cloth, for $1.50. 

The Swamp Doctor’s Adven- 
tures in the South-West. 

Containing the whole of the Louisians 
Swamp Doctor ; Streaks of Squattei 
Life ; and Far-Western Scenes. With 
14 Illustrations from designs by Par- 
ley. Cloth. Price $1..50. 

The Big Bear’s Adventure 
and Travels : containing all of 
the Adventures and Travels of the 
“ Big Bear of Arkansaw, ” and “ Stray 
Subjects.” With Eighteen Illustrations 
from Original Designs by Darley. One 
vol., bound. Price $1.50. 

Frank Forester’s Sporting 
Scenes and Ciiaracters. Illus- 
trated. Two vols., cloth, $3.00. 


14 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


CAPTAIN MARRYATT^S WORKS. 

Price Twenty-Five Cents each. 


in Searcli of a Fatlier. 
Snarleyow. 

King’s Own. 

Newton Forster. 
Pirate and Tliree Cutters. 
Pliantom Slxip* 

Jacob Faitlifnl. 

Tlie Naval Officer. 


Paclia of many Tales. 
MidsUipmaii Fasy. 

Rattlin, tlie Reefer. 
Perctval Keene. Price 50 cents 
Peter Simple. 50 cents. 

Sea King. 50 cents. 

Poor Jack. 50 cents. 
Valerie. 60 cents. 


GFORGF LiIPPARD’S WORKS 


Legends of tlie American 
Revolution ; or, Washington and 
his Generals, Two volumes, paper 
cover. Price One Dollar. 

Tbe Q^uaker City ; or, The Monks 
of Monk Hall. Two volumes, paper 
cover. PriAe One Dollar. 

Paul Ardenbeim; the Monk of 
Wissahikon. Two vols., paper cover. 
Price One Dollar. 


Blanclie of Brandywine. A 

Revolutionary Romance. Two vols., 
paper cover. Price One Dollar. 

Tlie Lady of Albarone ; or, The 

Poison Goblet. One vol., paper cover. 
Price 75 cents. 

Tbe Nazarene. One vol. 50 cents. 

Legends of Mexico. One volume. 
Price 25 cents. 


DOW’S PATENT SERMONS. 

Each volume, or series, is complete in itself, and either of the volumes are 


sold separately to any one, or in sets. 

Dow’s Sbort Patent Sermons. 
First Series. By Dow, Jr. 

Containing 128 Sermons. Complete in 
one vol., bound in cloth, for $1.00 ; or 
in .one vol., paper, for 75 cents. 
Dow’s Sbort Patent Sermons. 
Second Series. By Dow, Jr. 
Containing 144 Sermons. Complete in 
one voL, bound in cloth, for $1.00 ; or 
in one vol., paper, for 75 cents. 

ADVENTURES 

Wbat I Saw 5 and Where I 
Went. Being the private daily 
Journal and Letters of an educated 
Gentleman of Leisure and Fortune, 
who went abroad to see the Sights, 
and saw them. Price 75 cents in paper ; 
or in cloth, for One Dollar. 

Life Adventures of Paul 
Periwinkle. Price 50 cents. 


Dow’s Sbort Patent Sermons. 
Tbird Series. By Dow, Jr. 

Containing 116 Sermons. Complete ia 
one vol., bound in cloth, for $1.00 ; or 
in one vol., paper, for 75 cents. 

Dow’s Sbort Patent Sermons. 
Fourtb Series. By Dow, Jr. 

Containing 152 Sermons. Complete in 
one vol., bound in cloth, for $1.00 ; oi 
in one vol., paper, for 75 cents. 

AND TRAVELS. 

Adventni*es in Africa. By Major 
Cornwallis Harris. -This book is a rich 
treat. Two vols., paper, $1.00; or in 
cloth, $1.50. 

Don Q^uixotte. — Life and Ad- 
ventures of Don Q^uixotte ; 

and his Squire, Saucho Panza. Two 
vols, paper cover. Price $1.00; oriu 
one volume, cloth, for $1.60. 


MILITARY 


WORKS. 


Tbe Soldier’s Guide. A Complete 
Manual and Drill Book, for the use 
of Soldiers and Volunteers. Price 25 
cents in paper, or forty cents in Cloth. 

Tbe Soldier’s Companion. — 

With valuable information from the 
“Army Regulations,” for the use of 
all Officers and Volunteers. Price 25 
cts. in paper cover, or 40 cts. in cloth, 

Ellsworth’s Zouave Drill” 
and Biography. Price 25 ceuts in 
paper, or forty ceuts in cloth. 


Tbe Volunteers’ Text Book. 

This Work contains the whole of 
“The Soldier’s Guide,” as well as the 
whole of “The Soldier’s Companion. 
Price 50 cents in paper, or 75 cents ia 
cloth, 

Tbe United States’ Light In- 
fantry Drill. Price 25 cents iu 
paper cover, or forty cents in clofh. 

United Stales’ Government 
Infantry and Ride Tactics, 

full of engravings. Price 25 cents. 


I 5^ OET UP YOUK CUUBS FOJB 18G4 1 1! 


NEW AND SPLENDID PREMIUMS! 



THE BEST AND CHEAPEST IN THE WORLD ! 


This popular Monthly contains more for the money than any Magazine in the world. 
In 1864, it will have nearly 1000 pages, 25 to 30 steel plates, 12 colored patterns, and 900 
I wood engravings — and all this for only TWO DOLLARS A YEAR, or a dollar less than 
! magazines of its class. Every lady ought to take “Peterson.” In the general advance 
of prices, it is the ONLY MAGAZINE THAT HAS NOT RAISED ITS PRICES, EITHER 
I TO SINGLE SUBSCRIBERS OR TO CLUBS; and is, therefore, emphatically, 

THE MAGAZINE FOR THE TIMES! 

The stories in “ Peterson ” are conceded to be the beat published anywhere. Mrs. Ann 
I S. Stephens, Ella Rodman, Mrs. Denison, Frank Lee Benedict, the author of “SusyL’s i 
j Diary,” T. S. Arthur, E. L. Chandler Moirlton, Gabrielle Lee, A’irginia F. Townsend, 
j Rosalie Grey, Clara Au^sta, and the author of “The Second Life,” besides all the 
most popular female writers of America are regirlar contributors. In addition to the 
usual number of shorter stories, there will be given in 1864, Four Original 
Copy»righ.ted. Novelets, viz: 

THE MAID OF HONOR— a Story of Queen Bess, 

By ANN S. STEPHENS. 

THE LOST ESTATE— a Story of To-Day, 

By the author of “ The Second Life.” 

MAUD’S SUMMER AT SARATOGA, 

By FRANK LEE BENEDICT. 

FANNY’S FLIRTATION, 

By ELLA RODMAN. 

In its Illustrations also, “ Peterson” is unrivaled. The publisher challenges a compari- 
son between its SUPERB MEZZOTINTS AND OTHER STEEL ENGRAVINGS and 
those in other Magazines, and one at least is given in every number. 

COLORED FASHIOK PLATES IN ADVANCE, 

It is the ONLY MAGAZINE whose Fashion Plates can be relied on. I 

Each number contains a Fashion Plate, engraved on steel, and colored — from Fashions | 
later than any other Magazine gives; also, a dozen or more New Styles, engraved on | 
Wood ; also, a Pattern, from which a Dress, Mantilla, or Child’s Costume can be cut, with- 
out the aid of a mantua-maker— so that each number, in this way, will SAVE A YEAR’S 
SUBSCRIPTION. The Paris, London, Philadelphia and New York Fashions are descri- 
1 bed, at length, each month. Patterns of Caps, Bonnets, Head Dresses, &c., given. Its 

COLOaSS PATTERIS W EaiSaOIDEaY, CaOCHST, &c. 

The Work-Table Department of this Magazine IS WHOLLY UNRIVALED. Every 
number contains a dozen or more patterns in every vai-iety of Fancy-Avork; Crochet, 
Embroidery, Knitting, Bead-work, Shell-Avork, Ilair-Avork, &c., &c., Ac. Eyery month, a 
SUPERB COLORED PATTERN FOR SLIPPER. PURSE or CHAIR SEAT, &c., is given 
— each of Avhich, at a retail store, would cost Fifty Cents. 

«OUR NEW COOK-BOOK.” 

The Original Household Receipts of “Peterson” are quite famous. For 1864 our 
“Cook-Book” will bo continued: EVERY ONE OF THESE RECEIPTS HAS BEEN 
TESTED. This alone will be Avorth the price of “Peterson.” Other Receipts for the 
Toilette, Sick-room, Ac., Ac., Avill he given. 

NEW AND FASHIONABLE MUSIC in every .number. Also, Hints on Horticulture, 
Equestrianism, and all matters interesting to Ladies. 

TERMS:— ALWAYS IN ADVANCE. 

One Copy for One year, $2.00 I Five Copies for One year, - - - - $7.50 

Three Copies for One year, - - - - 5.00 | Eight Copies for One year. - - - - 10.00 
PREMIUMS FOR GETTING UP CLUBS !— Three, Five, or Eight copies, make 
a Club. To every person getting up a club an extra copy of the Magazine for 1864 will 
be giA’en. 

AMresSi postpaid, CHAHLES J. PETERSOH, 

No. 306 Chestnut St., Phila. 

4®>A11 Postmasters constituted Agents; but any person may get up a club. Speci- j 
mens sent gratuitously, if written for. j 


yilPlSI BOOK BOOSE IB TBE WOBID. 

To Sutlers! Pedlars! Booksellers! News Agents! etc. 


T. B. PETERSON &b BROTHERS, 

! 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, 

PUBLISH THE MOST SALEABLE BOOKS IN THE WORLO,' 

AND SUPPLY ALL BOOKS AT VERY LOW RATES. | 

I’he cheapest place in the world to buy or send for a stock of all ] 
kinds of Books, suitable for all persons whatever, for Soldiers, and for ; 
the Army, and for all other reading, is at the Bookselling and Pub- ■ 
lishing House of T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, j 

Any person wanting any books at all, in any quantity, from a single ; 
book to a dozen, a hundred, thousand, ten thousand, or larger quantity ■ 
of books, had better send on their orders at once to the “ CHEAP- • 
EST BOOKSELLING AND PUBLISHING HOUSE IN THE; 
WORLD,” which is at T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 
Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, who have the largest stock in the coun- ^ 
try, and will supply them and sell them cheaper than any other house 
in the world. We publish a large variety of Military Novels, with j 
Illustrated Military covers, in colors, besides thousands of others, all 3 
of which are the best selling and most popular books in the world. ^ 
We have just issued a new and complete Catalogue, copies of which, 
we will send gratuitously to all on their sending for one. ' 

Enclose one, two, five, ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred, or a thousand’ 
dollars, or more, to us in a letter, or per express, and write what kind' 
of books you wish, and they will be packed and sent to you at once, per 
first express or mail, or in any other way you may direct, just as well 
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bills, &c., gratis. All we ask is to give us a trial. 

Address all orders for any books you may want at all, no matter by 
whom published, or how small or how large your order may be, to the 
Cheapen Publishing and BooJcsdlmg House in the world, which is at 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, 

And they will be packed and sent to you within an hour after receipt 
of the order, per express or railroad, or in any other way you may direct. 

1^^ Agents, Sutlers, and Pedlars wanted everywhere, to engage in the 
t A' f mr popular ||^ig Books, all of which will be sold at very low rates? 


RAILWAY EDITION. 


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 




WIFE’S 




BY 


MRS. MN S. STEPHENS. 


AUTHOE OF “THE REJECTED WIFE,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE HEIRESS,” 
“FASHION AND FAMINE,” “THE t)LD HOMESTEAD,” 

“THE GULF BETWEEN THEM,” ETC., ETC. 



If fame is won by woman, she must yield 
The richest glory of her being up. 

Drain her full heart, fling oflT its golden shield. 
And give her holiest love to fill the cup, 
Which, like a brimming goblet, rich with wine, 
She ponreth out upon the world’s broad shrine. 
In after years, such thoughts as live and bam. 
Are sacred ashes in her faneral am. . 


•1 


r* * t' ^ 


|)l)tlalrelpl)ta: 

T. B. PETEESON & BEOTHERSy 





.306 


CHESTNUT STREET. 




T 


T. I PETERSON & BROTHERS’ NEW BOOKS. 


MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS’ WORKS. 


The Rejected Wife. One volume, 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or in 
one volume, cloth, for 1.50. 

FasChion aiid Famine. One vol- 
ume, paper cover. Price $1.00; or in 
one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

Mary Derwent. One volume, 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or in 
one volume, cloth, for $1.50. 


The Heiress. One volume, paper 
cover. Price One Dollar; or in one 
volume, cloth, for $1.50. 

The Old Homestead. Ono vol- 
ume, paper cover. Price One Dollar ; 
or in one vol., cloth, $1,50. 

The edition of these books in one vol- 
ume, paper cover, is the “Kailway 
Edition.” 


CAROLINE L.EE HENTZ’S WORKS. 


Planter’s Northern Bride. 

One volume, paper cover. Price One 
Dollar ; or in cloth, $1.50. 

Linda. The Yonng Pilot of 
the Belle Creole. Price $1.00 in 
paper ; or $1.50 in cloth. 

Robert Graham. The Sequel to, 
and Continuation of Linda. Price $1.00 
in paper ; or $1.50 in cloth. 

The Lost Daughter. One vol., 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or 
bound in one vol., cloth, $1.60. 

Courtship and Marriage. One 

-vol., paper cover. Price One Dollar ; 
or in one vol., cloth, $1.60. 

Rena; ory The Snow Bird. 

One vol., paper cover. .'Price One 
Dollar; or one vol,,^oth, $1.60. 

Marcus Warland. One volume, 
paper cover. Price One Dollar; or 
bound in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

The edition of these books in one volume. 


Love after Marriage. One vol., 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or in 
one volume, cloth, for $1 .60. 

The Planter’s Daughter. One 

vol., paper cover. Pri^ One Dollar ; 
or in one vol., cloth, $1*. 

Eoline ; or, Magnolia Vale. 

One- vol., paper cover. Price One 
Dollar ; or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

The Banished Son. One vol., 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or in 
one volume, cloth, for $1.50. 

Helen and Arthur. One vol- 
ume, paper cover. Price One Dollar ; 
or in one volume, cloth, for $1.50. 

'Ernest Linwood. One volume, 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; oij in 
one volume, cloth, for $1.50. 

Courtship and Matrimony. 

One vol., paper cover. Price One 
. Dollar ; or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

paper cover, is the “ Bail way Edition.” ■ 


“7 


MRS. HENRY WOOD’S BOOKS. 


The Shadow of Ashlydyat. 

Two vols., paper cover. Price One 
Dollar; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.25. 

Squire Trevlyn’s Heir. Two 
vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar ; 
or in one vol., cloth, for $1.25. 

The Castle’s Heir. Two volumes, 
octavo, paper cover. Price One Dol- 
lar ; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.25. 


The Chanuings. One vol., octavo, m 
paper cover. Price 75 cents ; or in one I 
vol., cloth, $1.00. J 

The Lost Bank Note. OnevoL, j 
paper cover. Price 60 c^ts. | V 

The Runaway Match. One vol.,' 1 

paper cover. i Price 60 cents. 

The Mystery. Price Fifty cents; 
or bound in one vol., cloth, 76 cents. -J 


Verner’s Pride. Two vols., octavo, 
paper cover. Price $1.00; or in one 
vol., cloth, for $1.25. 

We also publish a “ Railway Edition” 
of all the above, each one in one volume, 
paper cover. I^ice One Dollar each. 


The Earl’s Heirs. Price Fifty 
cents ; or one vol., cloth, 76 cents. • 

Aurora Floyd. Price 60 cents ; or * 
■ a finer editiou, in cloth, for $1.00. 

Better For Worse. One vol., oc- 
tavo, paper cover. Price 60 cents. 


A Life’s Secret. Price Fifty cents ; The Foggy Night at Oflbrd. ' 
or in one vol., cloth, 76 cents. Price 25 cents. 

4®* Copies of any or all of the above books, will be sent to any one, to any ! 
place in the United States, free of postage, on remitting the price of the ones , 

wanted to T. B. Peterson & Brothers, in a letter. ’ 

J 

Published and for sale at the Cheapest Store in the world to buy or send for any ^ 
books you may wish, ^hich is at the Publishing and Bookselling House of 


nr-rrnnnti O. nnciTIIB^Q 


T. B. PETERSOS & BROTHERS’ NEW BOOKS. 




MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS. 

Tlie Fatal Mari'iage. Complete 
iu oae volume, paper cover. Price 
$1.00 ; or in oue vol., cloth, $1.50. 
liovc’s Labor Won. One vol., 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or in 
one vol., cloth, $1.50. 


Tbe Gipsy’s Prophecy. Com- 

. plete in one vol., paper cover. Price 

i $1.00 ; or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

Motlier-in-Iiaw. Complete in one 
volume, paper cover. Price $1.00 ; 

_ or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

The Lady of* the Isle. Complete 
in one vol., paper cover. Price $1.00; 

i or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

'The Two Sisters. Completeinone 
volume, paper cover. Price $1.00 ; or 
in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

r 

IThe Three Beanties. Complete 

i in one vol., i)aperm)ver. Price $1.00 ; 

I or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

; Vlvia. The Secret of Power. 

' One vol., paper cover. Price $1.00; 
orinonevol., cloth*$1.50. 

I India. The Pearl of Pearl 
River. One volume, paper cover. 
Price $1.00 ; or in cloth, for $1.50. 

The Wife’s Victory. One vol., 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or in 
one volume, cloth, for $1.50. 

The Lost Heiress. One volume, 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or in 
one volume^ cloth, for $1.50. 

Hickory Hall. By Mrs. Southworth. 
Price 50 cents. 


The Missing Bride. One vol« 

ume, paper cover. Price One Dollar ; 
or in one volume, cloth, for $1.50. 

Retribution : A Tale of Pas- 
sion. One vol., paper cover. Price 
$1.00; or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

The Haunted Homestead. One 

vol., paper cover. Price One Dollar; 
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

The Curse of Clifton. One vol., 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or in 
one volume, cloth, for $1.50. 

The Discarded Daughter. One 

vol., paper cover. Price One Dollar ; 
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. ^ 

The Deserted Wife. One vol- 
ume, paper cover. Price One Dollar ; 
or in one volume, cloth, for $1.50. 

The Jealous Husband. One vol- 
ume, paper cover. Price $1.00 ; or in 
one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 

The Belle of W ashington. One 

vol., paper cover. Price One Dollar ; 
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

The Initials. A Love Story. 
One vol., paper cover. Price One Dol- 
lar; or in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

Kate Aylesford. One vol., paper 
cover. Price One Dollar ; or hound in 
one vol., cloth, for $1.50. 

The Dead Secret. One volume, 
paper cover. Price One Dollar ; or 
hound in one vol., cloth, $1.50. 

Broken Engagement. 
Mrs. Southworth. Price 25 cents. 


The 

By 


The Edition of these books in one volume, paper cover, is the “Railway Edition. 


CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 


CHEAP EDITION, PAPER COVER. 

Pickwick Papers. 

Great Expeetations. 

A Tale o^Two Cities. 

New Years’ Stories. 
Barnaby Rddge. 

Old Curiosity Shop. 
Little Dorrlt. 

David Copperfield. 

Sketches by «Boz.”' 
Dickens’ New Stories. 
American Notes. 


PRICE FIFTY CENTS A VOLUME. 

Oliver Twist. 

Lamplighter’s Story. 
Dombey and Son. 

Nicholas Nickleby. 
Holiday Stories. 

Martin Chuzzlewit. 
Bleak House. \ 

Dickens’ Short Stories. 
Message from the Sea. 
Christmas Stories. 
Plc-Nic Papers. 


We also publish twenty-eight other different editions of Charles Dickens’ 
Works, at various prices, ranging from Ten to One Hundred Dollars a set. 

je®- Copies of any of the above books, will be sent to any one, free of postage, 
on remitting the price of the ones wanted to T. B. Peterson & Brothers, in a et er. 

Published and for sale at the Cheapest Store in the world to buy or send for any 
books you may wish, which is at the Publishing and Bookselling House of 

L B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

^ - ■ . -I - 


imm BOOK nm in the ioiDj 

To Sutlers! Pedlars! Booksellers! News Agents! etc. j 

T. B. PETERSON Sl BROTHERS,! 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, j 

PUBLISH THE MOST SALEABLE BOOKS IN THE WOBLdII 

AND SUPPLY ALL BOOKS AT VERY LOW RATES. 

I 

The cheapest place in the world to buy or send for a stock ot all 
kinds of Books, suitable for all persons whatever, for Soldiers, and fo^ 
the Army, and for all other reading, is at the Bookselling and PubJ 
lishing House of T. B. PETEKSON & BROTHEES, Philadelphia^ 

Any person wanting any books at all, in any quantity, from a singl^ 
book to a dozen, a hundred, thousand, ten thousand, or larger quantity* 
of books, had better send on their orders at once to the “ CHEA?-1| 
i EST BOOKSELLING AND PUBLISHING HOUSE IN THE 
WORLD,” which is at T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 
Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, who have the largest stock in the coun- j 
try, and will supply them and sell them cheaper than any other house 1 1 
in the world. We publish a large variety of Military Novels, with 
Illustrated Military covers, in colors, besides thousands of others, all | 
of which are the best selling and most popular books in the worldJ 
We have just issued a new and complete Catalogue, copies of whichf 
we will send gratuitously to all on their sending for one. j 

Enclose one, two, five, ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred, or a thousand 
dollars, or more, to us in a letter, or per express, and write what kind 
of books you wish, and they will be packed and sent to you at once, per 
first express or mail, or in any other way you may direct, just as well 
assorted, and the same as if you were on the spot, with circulars, show 
bills, &c., gratis. All we ask is to give us a trial. 

Address all orders for any books you may want at all, no matter by 
whom published, or how small or how large your order may be, to the | 
Cheapest Publishing and B^^§elli^ & worlds which is at 

T. B. PETERSiN &^BRotlilS, 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, J 

And they will be packed and sent to you within an hour after receipt 
of the order, per express or railroad, or in any other way you may direct.* 


Agents, Sutlers, and Pedlars wanted everywhere, to engage in tlie 
sale of our popular selling Books, all of which will be soj^ at very low rat^ 









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